Pratchett's Avengers Resemble!
by jammywho
Summary: Lord Vetinari assembles an All Star Discworld team- with Susan, Angua, Moist, Rincewind and others- in order to avenge a fallen associate. But this is no ordinary revenge; Vetinari is taking the fight to Death himself. A Parody of blockbuster movies, grief and the inevitability of change, with plenty of cameos to boot!
1. Undead Pride Week

It was the eighth week of the Year of the Disgruntled Cuttlefish, and after years of lobbying the Patrician for more social awareness policies, Vetinari had decreed this week to be the annual Undead Pride Week. The streets of Ankh-Morpork were, therefore, populated not so much by the proud previously deceased, but by street vendors trying to cash in on civic excitement. Even some of the more conservative and oppressive vendors had turned out, as what were politics compared to paying customers? C.M.O.T Dibbler* of the questionable, but suspiciously profitable Dibbler Industries had found his career taking somewhat of an ironic twist this week, as his employees were back to peddling sausages of Dibbler's own recipe. He assured them that this was entirely appropriate, as the meat itself constantly spilled intestines and had a habit of moving even after they thought it was dead.

But the start of the week had not been without problems. Organising the pride march for instance had been a nightmare. Reg Shoe, the figurehead* of the undead rights movement had been adamant about walking at the front of the procession, but in practise, his arms could not support the banner without falling off. Even more stressful was the ordering of the marchers, as it was important not to offend anyone by putting them too far back in the parade, but they all insisted that they not be mixed. Werewolves for example, argued vehemently for a place near the front, so long as it wasn't second, as that reminded them too much of silver. The proud race of vampires naturally wanted to go first, so long as the march wasn't conducted in daylight. And though they were technically undead and therefore eligible to march, many prominent bogeymen preferred to stay in the closet.

Even the Patrician was getting into the –aha- spirit of the event. He had had his office painted an even darker shade of black and had some skeletons hung up on his wall for decoration. Quite whose skeletons they were, however, escaped his memory.

In front of him was a mess of parchment spread across the desk, inked over with walls of solid text, interspersed with legal jargon as impenetrable as a troll virgin's lady cave. Across the table from him was the cause of this mess of documentation; the zombie lawyer, Mr Slant. The rest of his body may well be rotting, but his sharp legal mind certainly wasn't. The two were currently involved in a semi-civil discussion about Undead Rights when it came to making wills and whether it was legal to reclaim all the possessions they'd bequeathed when they came back.

"Might I remind you," came the lawyer's voice, although quite how when Slant's lungs had stopped working many years ago, was a mystery. "Of the case of Hereford S. Pockets.* In a turn of events which has set a worrying precedent, Mr Pockets, after his demise at the hands of an apprentice piano-mover, awoke in his coffin and crawled out, only to find his will had already been read and officiated, meaning his substantial estate had been divided between his living relatives, leaving a formerly wealthy man with nothing."

"I would say that's more of an issue for the undead public relations office, but I take your point. I am prepared to send a decree to the guild of funeral directors to issue every dead body with a tag, that on the event of their resurrection, they may hand in to a solicitor to nullify the will. Although, such an overhaul of burial procedures would be quite the… undertaking."

The Patrician liked jokes. They allowed him to express his suitably dark sense of humour to his subjects, but never in a jovial tone. No, they'd always point out the joke as if it had been an accidental pune or play-on-words, in an attempt to lighten the mood. He would then swoop down on them mercilessly and make them feel even more uneasy. It was a surprisingly effective trick and one that gave him an enormous amount of pleasure.

Mr Slant, however, did not laugh, nor point out the pun. He just continued the negotiations. It irked him, but he didn't let it show. Lawyers…

"And in the event of vampires or ash spirits, who have no solid form onto which to tag?"

"Then I'll have my man look into a universal tagging solution." He thought of the genius locked in his attic. It wouldn't surprise him if the solution came with a propulsion mechanism or a self destruct button. "If you'll excuse me, there is actually a personal matter I wish to discuss with you."

The zombie's left eyebrow fell off. Vetinari assumed he had been trying to raise it.

"Certainly."

"How would one go about becoming a member of your community?" The Patrician asked him.

"Regretfully, my lord, one can not just to decide to join our community. Being undead is not a choice. It is something you are."

"Oh you must understand, I am not asking for myself, only for a friend of mine."

"And is your friend of the undead persuasion?"

"Well… he's halfway there."

* * *

*his full title technically being C.E.O.C.F.O.C.O.O.C.O.O. C.M.O.T. Dibbler.

* and occasionally figure-without-a-head,

*The 'S' in this case is inaccurate. It should, in fact read '$'. Such was the excessive wealth of Hereford Pockets that he had hired lawyers to legally change his middle name to a unit of currency. He had a level of extravagance to him that would make even Moist Von Lipwig blush.


	2. Moist the Tax Engine

Moist Von Lipwig had only ever had one weakness* and that was his need to be universally loved. He'd made people come back to the post office, even though it wasn't as efficient as the clacks. He'd got people on board with travelling long distances on a machine that could hypothetically explode if even the smallest thing went wrong. Hell, he'd even persuaded people to trust _bankers_. But the latest herculean labour Vetinari had dumped on him had been just a little bit too much. It had thrown his weakness out into the open.

He was a tax man now.

No one ever wanted to pay taxes, he knew that. Everyone knew that. He could knock at every door himself and hustle the money from them with a card trick or a shiny glass ring. That would have been easy. But going up to someone and straight-up asking for, nay, demanding money? It'd be easier to get money from a brick wall. If you told them you were working for a reputable establishment like the government, they'd trust you even less. Right now, the Thieves' Guild was more popular than he was. At least with the Thieves' Guild, when you paid them, you knew they weren't robbing you.

All the same, he was making do. The tax office was becoming more efficient, even if that meant its collectors were a little more insistent and a little less patient. But he had a little spark of belief he kept burning behind a mask of false confidence. One day he'd make paying taxes the norm. A civic duty, maybe. He might even make it 'cool'. He'd made the word 'cool' cool for a start. Despite what Spike said.

Taxes, however, were aptly named. It was tiring work. He might never have made it through if he'd had to stay out on the furthest edges of the country, away from his wife, and to a lesser extent, tailors he could trust with gold cloth. To that end, he'd been commuting back and forth on the West Ankh-Morpork hygienic railway.

It had been five years since he'd first talked people into giving up their land to give the engine legs. It had become quite the enterprise. Dick Simnel and Harry King weren't the only railway business on the disc anymore, but that was to be expected. Ideas couldn't stay contained for long. Profit was still rolling in, though, maybe not as fast, but steady. Enough for them to retire a thousand times over.

Dick was almost retired anyway. He was the only one allowed to operate on Iron Girder, but she hardly ever needed it. Mostly he innovated and he invented and Harry King would take them off his hands when he got bored of them, for what, he was assured, was a very reasonable price.

He was married now, was Dick, with kids, no less. And he'd taken up writing for them, too. Stories about Iron Girder and her inexplicably talkative engine friends. King had put a shelf on every train he ran with copies of every book, and Moist was reading one now. The illustrations were disturbing; all the trains had faces. It made Moist uncomfortable, the idea of being inside a living thing.

But that wasn't even the worst part. He'd known this was coming for quite a while, and he'd done everything he could to stop it, he'd told them it was inappropriate, needless self-insertion, he'd even offered to ghost-write the story and waive the credit (something he was usually loathe to do) but it had gone through nonetheless. The irony was, it was supposed to be an honour. He had a fictional train named after him! It was gold, it was smart, it was proud…

…but it was called 'the Moist Piston'.

Adora Belle had promised him that were they ever to have kids, she'd read them these stories every night until he had a permanent nickname. He'd retaliated by shifting the conversation to how much he'd like to have children, which shut her up.

He'd always thought he'd make a good father; after all, he was very good at getting on well with people, especially kids. This might have been because children were a lot more gullible than adults. And – though he'd never told anyone this, he wanted someone to pass all his secrets on to. He wanted to teach, so that one day he wouldn't be the smartest person in the room.

She told him she'd think about it, but she felt she should give up smoking first as she didn't want to hurt their children. Ever since then, she'd moved up to forty cigarettes a day. Moist was trying very hard not to take the hint. Maybe if he took it up too, she'd start to think it was stupid.

Oh, but he'd miss the smell of tobacco in her hair…

Before he even knew it, he was home. It wasn't much to look at- he'd joked that they paint it grey for Adora. She'd suggested gold. He'd laughed it off, naturally, but really he needed somewhere ordinary. Somewhere where he didn't need a persona. Somewhere out of the public eye. Somewhere where some of the walls were soundproofed for… reasons.

And somewhere no-one knew the address. Or so he thought. Protruding from his letterbox was the tiniest corner of a pitch-black envelope. He pulled it back through and looked at both sides of it. It was definitely meant for him; it had his name and address written in gold ink. But, alas, no stamp. Moist couldn't help but feel a stab of professional pride. They hadn't even used the Post Office.

It was paper thin. That meant no explosives, but he was still a long way from safety. He opened it, only to find a card inside the same shade as the envelope.

Black on black…

Vetinari. 

* * *

*Two, if you include Adore Belle Dearheart's severely plain grey under-garments. Three if you include the lack thereof.


	3. The Wolf of Treacle Mine Road

Captain Angua* was a bad cop. Captain Carrot was a good cop. Neither of them was particularly pleased with this terminology, because Carrot felt that it was a slight to his fellow officer, (and no-one had a higher opinion of the average watchman than him). Angua didn't like it because she knew she was, in fact, a damn great cop. But it was important to establish the roles going in, otherwise you ended up with a convict who was either beaten to a bloody pulp or who was too comfortable to leave.

A better way to describe it would be to call it disarmingly nice cop and likely-to-rip-out-your-entrails cop. It was the classic carrot-and-stick technique* with an added Vimes twist. It wasn't so much letting the convict feel calm after setting the heat on them as much as cooling them rapidly in freezing water until they explode.

From the sidelines, Angua was watching Carrot sitting across the table from an Igor, offering him a drink (non-alcoholic of course) and telling him, of course I believe you; I can't believe anyone would be smuggling dangerous materials out of the city, let alone a fine upstanding citizen like yourself.

She'd already been in of course to put the fear of gods in him, although Carrot said, if anything, she did it too well. After talking to the Igor for a few seconds, he'd said he'd lost all faith in a benevolent god. Angua had smiled at that.

In a few minutes, she'd be back in again, but for the time being, scare tactics were the name of the game. She bunched up a fist and a squeak escaped. Inside was a little toy bone she'd bought from the Lady Sybil Dragon Sanctuary to help with her deal with her pre-lunar irritability. She'd been surprised by its effectiveness. The way it worked, well, it was hard to believe it wasn't magic. As she squeaked it –over and over again- she could feel the stress leaving her and entering everyone else.

But all the Igor knew was that Angua was a beast sent from hell to tear his soul right out of his body, and that she'd be back the moment the nice orange man left. He'd confess to anything to keep him in the room.

All the same, she'd love to get in there and get the information from him. She knew it didn't matter who got the confession, but she couldn't let Carrot have all the credit. She wanted to be running the watch one day, but Carrot would be a captain for the rest of his days. It just suited him, and he'd be the first to admit it.

Besides, mad scientists were her speciality. Looming castles and "freak" thunderstorms were all the rage back in Uberwald and you had to learn to deal with them if you didn't want to be an experiment. An Igor being its own dark master was new though and the sort of thing that could really mess with the status quo.

She squeaked the toy again. And again. This was fun, she thought, before stopping herself. _That_ way Animal Madness lies. It started with a few things that smelled nice or made noises and before you knew it you had nose full of farts and you had to put your leg up to pee.

Although making sure people knew what was yours was just common sense.

Moving towards the door, Angua pricked up an ear. Carrot was sitting back and letting Igor talk himself into a hole. People liked talking to Carrot, but his speech was slowing down and… were they talking about science? Oppositional Equilibrium theory? Let's get it back on track.

Squeak.

Oh, she could spell the sudden spurt of sweat.

Squeaky squeak.

Are they back on topic now? It still sounds like science, but faster. He's tripping over words, but that's only to be expected from someone with three legs and two tongues.

She burst into the room and threw Carrot out in a single, well-rehearsed movement.* Her fist hammered the table, and for a moment, some grizzled fur shimmered into existence on it. His mismatched eyes widened; she's a werewolf! Every recent addition to his body felt tingling along the seams. Something told them they'd need to check the Times for new body listings.

She snarled at him through suddenly pointier teeth. A chicken bone escaped and rattled across the table. Igor tried to keep eye contact- if he didn't, she'd pounce- but slowly one eye drifted down to see the blood and spit covered bone.

She'd only been in for a few seconds before Carrot came back in to wrestle her out, but she'd done what she needed to: the suspect was terrified. There was a strong whiff of urine coming off the Igor, although it was hard to tell from where*. Readying the chew toy, she placed her ear to the wall and listened. It was Carrot who spoke first.

"I'm so sorry; she can be a bit messy sometimes. Let me get that for you."

A swish of a hankerchief as he swept the blood and saliva from the table.

"Mind you, I love these things."

Ah, so he'd picked up on the wishbone gambit.

"Want to pull this with me? A chap in your position could really use some luck right about now."

Snap.

"Oh. Shame. Well I'd better make a wish, then."

Odd that Igor hadn't said anything yet. Maybe he's got his tongues tied.

"I'm not really supposed to tell you what I wished for, but for the purposes of keeping this conversation going, I should say that I always wish for the same thing: Justice and a city free from crime."

And here comes the final nail in the coffin…

"Reckon you could help me with that?" 

* * *

*Yes, Captain Angua.

*In which Angua was the stick and Carrot was the other one.

*The many rehearsals of this move only occasionally led to hanky panky.

* Sometimes certain internal organs aren't stitched up properly and fluids find surprising places to leak from. On an entirely unrelated matter, Igor was concentrating most of his energy on not crying.


	4. oppositology 101

Igor couldn't spill his guts fast enough. Luckily, this was mostly figurative. The threat of a savaging was an unsurprisingly effective motivator and it was only a half an hour after their shift officially ended that Angua and Carrot had retired to the Watch's Solution Room.

Angua, like any competent watch officer (barring Carrot) resented having to set foot in the Solution Room. As if you needed a room to think about catching a criminal. Vimes had told her in her first week that a Watch Officer did his thinking on his feet and on the street. Angua agreed, but she'd corrected him on the pronouns. He'd gotten better since, of course, in his Vimesian way of moving with the times. But he still hated that room.

It had been designed- nay, vaguely notioned into existence- by someone who was probably well meaning and was clearly filled with radical new ideas. Unfortunately, these ideas were in the same school of radical thought as an elective and democratic government where everyone, regardless of race, gender, or lifestyle had an equal say and a vote in which baby rabbit decided the level of taxation.

The room was plastered with floral murals and splatterings of bright colours, supposedly designed to increase the flow of ideas and positive thinking. It occurred to Angua that whoever had designed it certainly wasn't a watchman. In a room with this much positivity, it was almost impossible to think a suspect was capable of any horrible crime, and a fair few criminals had slipped through the cracks in the first few weeks before something had been done.

That something had been allowing Sergeant Detritus into the room for a few minutes. When he left, the place had a certain crater-like atmosphere to it, which allowed the number of arrests to return to normal, and what was more, the Watch got a gritty reboot.

Currently, red strings arched across the room, criss-crossing from wall to wall connecting related cases, pinned in places to newspaper clippings, iconographs and other evidence. In one case, one thread led to an Ephebian stone statue they'd recovered, which had a sock, knitted from the same red strings, covering an offensive area.

The Solution Room did, fortunately, have a tidy desk to one side, where Angua and Carrot's operation was centred. Almost immediately, Angua messed it up again by slamming the case file onto it, and spilling iconographs of UU's magic warehouse and a grotty laboratory across the surface.

"It took all this to build a sword?" Angua said, unbelieving.

"An anti-sword, technically." Carrot said innocently. "It's to do with Oppositional Equilibrium Theory."

"So it's just Oppositology? We had that in Uberwald."

Evil scientists are all the same. Give them a simple concept, like the idea that everything in the universe had an exact opposite, and they'd add jargon until no-one could understand it. The only difficult part of the science was avoiding misconceptions; for example, many people would say the opposite of a knife was a fork, but what actually did the opposite job of a knife was an adhesive.

"I still don't know why this is such a big thing. It's just the opposite of a sword. That's a good thing, right? Healing wounds?"

Angua sighed. When it came to the small picture, no-one was better. He believed in the border between good and evil and that pretty much everyone lived on the side of good. But sometimes, he couldn't see when ideas were spread their way over to the darker side.

"But swords don't just hurt people, Carrot. They kill people." She explained, as calmly as she could. "And we don't know what would happen if someone could bring people back from the dead willy-nilly."

"It still sounds like a good thing. Especially during Undead Pride Week."

Oh, Undead Pride Week. She mentally scolded herself. She was going to march in the parade, she was after all, incredibly proud of what she was, and one of the most prominent werewolves in Ankh Morpork, but she figured, work came first. She always put work first.

She could still catch the last part of the parade if she was quick, though. Just explain the situation to Carrot and let him handle it while you march.

"Look, the Undead know you have to keep the balance between life and death. It's something you just pick up. It's why vampires don't turn everyone they meet and not every corpse comes back to life. I don't know exactly what will happen, or why. But that balance is integral to the nature of the universe."

Carrot didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded.

"And on top of that, he's stealing unstable magical materials and we don't even know if the anti-sword would work. Lots of people could get hurt if he starts experimenting. That's why we have so many Mad Scientist Laws."

"Okey dokey. I can see it out from here." He smiled. "You go march."

She felt a mix of guilt and relief. There were only two people who worked harder than her in the Watch: Carrot and Vimes, and she'd just put a lot more on the former's plate. But it was the first pride march in this city's history and she had to set an example.

"Thanks, honey." She kissed him. A mischievous smile crossed her face: "I'll make it up to you later" she winked.

Carrot had been raised by gender-conservative dwarves, so Angua wasn't sure if he actually understood flirting, but he smiled at her nonetheless. He smiled at everyone, of course, but this was his special smile. His smile reserved especially for her. And she loved it.

She kissed him again and ran to change into her ceremonial Watch uniform. It was there where she ran into Cheery Littlebottom, who was braiding her beard into a thick, glossy plait.

"Oh hey, cap!" Cheery smiled, nudging Angua in the knee.

"Oh, please, Cheery." Angua laughed, elbowing Cheery in the head, as it was the only part of Cheery she could reach. Luckily, dwarves had naturally thick skulls. "Let's keep rank out of this."

"Sure thing, cap." She winked.

"Knock it off before I knock it out of you."

Cheery stuck her tongue out. When it went back in, it was significantly hairier. This was why she had to wear a beard net at work.

"Oh, by the way, that came for you." She pointed to Angua's locker and the black envelope slotted in the doorframe. Angua could already smell the unbearably plain scent of Vetinari's clerks on it. Her fingernail sharpened to a point as she slit the envelope open. A quick scan was all she needed. Urrrrgh. She wasn't going to march tonight.

With Vetinari, you couldn't be certain you'd make it back alive.


	5. The Art of Death

Susan Sto Helit was a teacher. At least that was what it said on her contract, but Susan suspected there was a subtle but important distance between teaching and Telling. Teaching meant imparting knowledge, but knowledge was subjective. It was the opinions of historians and theorists. Susan dealt in Facts.

Her approach was to tell her students exactly what happened. Or rather, show them with her ABILITIES. She let them figure out the how and the why based on what they saw and more often than not, they got it right.

While this was a sensible and practical approach to teaching science and history, it was next to useless when it came to teaching art. Susan couldn't abide art. She could draw; there was no doubt about it. Her drawings, occasional though they were, were always accurate, because she could only draw exactly What Was There. The closest she ever got to abstract art was by not finishing her pictures.

This wouldn't normally be a problem, as Susan's class was the most in demand of any school in the area. Parents had even claimed to have no religion to get their children into her class, hoping to appeal to her logic. But one of the key members on the school board was Giusceppe Acrylica –a fake name if ever she heard one. He was the sort of artist whose persona exceeded their talent, and whose unfounded success exceeded both. He'd struck gold in the surrealist art world by befriending a rich drunkard* and his bum had only gotten squeakier since. The school was therefore courting his charity as much as possible, in this case, by making art classes mandatory.

For Susan, this meant arranging the students' desks in a circle around a bowl of fruit. Quite what fruit had the most artistic value, Susan had no idea. She chose a pineapple as the centrepiece, because she could see the mathematical spirals that made up the hard exterior, added a banana on either side and completed the bowl with filler; apples, grapes, oranges and the like.

She looked at the fruit bowl and surmised that it did indeed look like a fruit bowl. The fruit was certainly fruity. The bowl stopped the fruit rolling away. But that was all it was. There was no essence of banana to be captured, no quintessential appleness waiting to be realised, and the concept of a pineapple remained as aloof as ever.

Her brief foray into the world of art criticism was then interrupted by the dragging of cloth across a table. She looked down, and, to her surprise, saw a spherical cloak rolling across the table. It tumbled until it bumped into the fruit bowl, shook itself off after the impact and from nowhere pulled out a scythe.

"I'm sorry, what do you think you're doing?"

It looked up at her until she could see under the cowl. Underneath it was round and orange. It said nothing. But it said it in CAPITAL LETTERS.

"Are you telling me you've come to carry the soul of this orange off into the next world?"

It looked at her. Then the orange. Then her again. It nodded.

"But oranges aren't alive!"

The Death of Oranges turned from side to side like a shaking head. THIS ONE ISN'T, it seemed to say.

Susan had more questions and objections, but she figured the answers weren't worth nearly as much as her sanity.

"Fine. Just do it quickly and be on your way."

The scythe swung and a translucent orange ghost rolled out from its body. Susan couldn't imagine a dead orange had that much more sentience than a live one, and certainly not enough to grasp the concept of death. But still the ghost turned to its hooded companion and back to its deceased flesh, put two and two together insofar as any unthinking fruit can, and the two vanished into the afterlife.

She sighed. If only she wasn't so constantly aware of death, maybe she could have a normal life. But this was her lot as Death's granddaughter. Always one life ending after another. So many stories with no conclusion.

Despite her lack of artistic skill or imagination, Susan had always loved books. She loved the way the good ones always wrapped everything up at the end, cleaning up the mess of life and making sure everything was okay.

She looked back at the bowl of fruit and everything about it looked the same. Bananas were still bananas, apples were still apples. And yet there was something about the orange. It looked different somehow…

Something whistled silently through the air. Susan slumped forward instantly, losing consciousness before she could reach the dart in her neck.

She wanted stories that made sense, but all she got was pulp.

* * *

*Hereford $ Pockets was not famed for his decision-making skills.


	6. The Universal University

In the High Energy Magic Building of Unseen Uninversity, the Multiverse was getting smaller. Somewhere was quickly becoming Everywhere and Everything was happening Somewhere.

Ponder Stibbons was _not_ tinkering. He had said it many times but no-one on the senior staff believed him. They believed the de facto position of wizards was to be meddling with things they could never hope to understand. What frustrated him was that he _did_ understand. And so did almost everyone else these days.

He'd built Hex, by Nuggan! Admittedly it had evolved and developed sentience at a rate faster than he predicted, but at least he could explain it in retrospect. And furthermore, he was helping it evolve further, installing the new codes and insects. And even furthermore, (Ponder could 'furthermore' repeatedly for a good half an hour when he was in a righteous technical mood), that branch of magic had helped to establish a foothold for new universities as far wide as Genua and the Counterweight Continent through the advanced interconnectivity* of the system.

These other universities were building their own thinking machines. They hadn't quite reached Ponder's level of intricacy and perhaps they wouldn't for some time, but they were catching up faster than Unseen University could develop new technology. Soon data would be flying across the disc from university to university at light speed- premium rate light speed- and they'd be trading tips and code and spells and their thinking machines would advance faster and faster. Soon they'd be shedding light of the mysteries of the universe rather than- Ponder shuddered at the thought of what the newest students were doing- calculating the trajectories of airborne poultry.*

The latest development that kept Hex at the cutting edge of gizmology was the integration of the H.I.V.E. system into its matrix. Inside it, several hundreds bees were crawling through hollow tubes perforated with the occasional pollen node, where the bees would crawl in, and depending on the yellow-black binary coding on the bee's exterior, would perform a certain task.

The queen bee of the hive was ultimately in control of the whole operation and in its system was all the data the swarm had collected and therefore the complete guide on how to build your own Hex. This was essential, as attempting to write down the instructions, even without a high density magical field around it, could have catastrophic effects on scale with the unspeakable tomes chained up in the library.

But the real edge the H.I.V.E. system had was its portability. The queen could produce new, identical queen bees, which could be sent by broomstick to other high magic centres across the disc, where they could give birth to a whole new swarm that formed the new operating system. The queen in this instance was unusually large and blocky, and its mind was slightly altered through quantum borrowing techniques to work effectively. It was astounding how so much data, so many files, so many lines of code could be stored on just the one queen bee- although technically (another Stibbons catchphrase) it was called the Universal Sovereign Bee, or U. for short.

It wasn't only other universities who were interested in Hex, though. Every day, there were people at the gates, wanting to be let in and see the future of the world. Obviously, this could never be.

Wizards didn't mind ordinary people per se. They didn't come into contact with them that often any more, except for what they read in The Times, which they were strongly opinionated about. And every time they read about a murder, it was always a perfectly nice person that no-one expected. Well, they weren't taking any chances.

To that end, they'd only ever let a handful of citizens into the university. There was the staff who weren't allowed into certain rooms unless they needed to clean up after an… incident. And then there was Vetinari and his clerks. But that had merely been a formality, to ensure everyone knew he was Patrician. He'd been ushered out quickly, because he seemed to understand magic a little too well.

Ignorance is the fuel of gossip, and as a result, word had spread around Ankh- Morpork of the sort of things the wizards had brewing. At the gates he'd heard citizens spread rumours, to try and scare their friends. They'd spoken of ungodly half-human hybrids, of spells that could warp a man's mind, of magical weapons that could level a city, but they were wrong.

What they could do at the University was worse.

Maybe it wasn't as blatantly evil as all that. Sure, there were ways they've found that could break a man into a hundred thousand pieces and scatter them across unimaginable realms of existence, but those were just the accidents. The side effects of the big projects. The inventions that would scribble outside the lines of time and space until a past without them were unfeasible. The ones that could change the world in a million little ways, with a million consequences no-one could see yet that someone would use to some ghastly ends in the future.

Ankh-Morpork was a city built on change, but there were just some changes no-one would ever be ready for. Things could happen or un-happen or disappear completely and the world would never be the same again.

\+ + + Use This One Little Trick To Increase The length Of Your Todger + + +

Hopefully, this was not one of them.

Ponder went back to the typewriter in front of Hex's mask and tried to prevent the sophisticated machinery from repeating the crude message only for the quill to start printing out a new message…

\+ + + There Are Many Attractive Single Ladies In Your Area + + +

This had been happening more and more these days. Someone in the lab had obviously been using Hex for Inappropriate Purposes. Hopefully it wasn't as bad as last time, when an inexperienced pimpled wizard, Archie Dunder, had tried to print out a real human woman. This resulted in Archie's regrettable death, leaving a corpse with a curiously high number of breasts, and a computer jammed with blood and hair.

Ponder shuddered at the memory and went about deploying the reset button (an ant-eating spider called Ben). But then up popped a new message. This one actually looked real. Someone had actually sent it specifically to Hex. He read it. And then he read it again. He printed it.

It came out black.

* * *

*"yes, Archchancellor, I'm sure that's a real word"

*when you stuff them in a trebuchet, all birds are angry birds.


	7. Run like the Rincewind

"Come on, come on, class. It's simple."

Silence.

"If a thaum is accelerated in a pan-dimensional matter collider until it reaches near-light speed, in a low level magical field…?"

The class stared blankly back at him.

"And it collides with another thaum under a few photons of octarine light…?"

One particularly intrepid student raised a hand, and mustered, "but professor Rincewind, no experiment like that has ever been conducted before."

"That shouldn't matter. Try to extrapolate the results from previous experiments!"

The students tried to remember Professor Stibbons' lessons and demonstrations, but if there were indeed lessons or observations to learn in there, they'd been lost in a mess of complicated terminology and explosions.

"All the experiments have one common conclusion! It should be obvious! Don't tell me none of you noticed?"

The class sat still, unsure of how to answer, and a few of them were looking round nervously wondering if they were in the wrong class. What did all of this have to do with Cruel and Unusual Geography?

"Disaster, people! Inevitable and catastrophic disaster!" Rincewind looked at them, exasperated. His eyes darted around the room, trying to spot the smallest inkling of self-preservation in their eyes. At least this meant in the event of a high energy magical maelstrom, he'd have a few bodies between him to catch the shrapnel.

"And what do we do in the face of disaster?"

Another hand. "Run?"

"Exactly!" He pointed to the student in question. "You see, people? _She'd_ survive an apocalypse, given enough hints. Now let's try this again. If two peppermint quarks collide in a spectron, under high energy magic conditions…?"

"Run?"

"Right! Right! And the most efficient safety procedure when conducting a standard Grunfeld radiation test?"

"Not being there at all?"

"Now you're getting it! And if the Bursar asks you to be a volunteer for a new potion?"

"Leave the country!"

Rincewind feigned wiping a tear away. "I'm so proud."

There was a knock at the door to the classroom. Through the window, Rincewind could see up the nose and into the eyes of Ponder Stibbons. He could see some frantic gestures and something that could be either unsuccessful nose-picking or a 'shush' motion.

He sighed. This can't be good.

Rincewind went up to the door, giving out last minute advice. "Remember, class, the wizards who make the most advances in science are the ones who do so at a distance."

Ponder motioned him closer, and simultaneously the whole class leaned in. It was a universally recognised wizarding trait that the more secret something was supposed to be, the more obvious it looked. No wizard worth his salt would let something they weren't supposed to hear escape them. And this included the laws of the universe.

"Rincewind, something came for you." He looked down into his pocket for just a second to produce the black page, "it's from Vetinari." But when he looked up, there was only a Rincewind shaped cloud of dust.*

As Ponder stood astounded at the unusual dust formation and calculating how exactly it was possible, the class surreptitiously started packing their bags, taking the initiative that if the teacher was gone, class was over. There were other educational opportunities to seize. Mostly experimental biology. Like the effects of alcohol and sleep –and hopefully women- on the human body.

"He may be paranoid, but you've got to admit, he does practise what he preaches." 

* * *

*It was a well known fact that whenever Rincewind ran away, the laws of physics would take a leave of absence until the immediate universe turned into an animated moving picture. Further evidence of this can be seen as the path he runs is usually marked by walls and windows with oddly luggage shaped holes in them.


	8. At the Pleasure of the Patrician

There were a fair few advantages to being Death's granddaughter. One was that she was still very aware of what was going on, even when she was unconscious. She was more aware than anyone most of the time anyway. Usually all that meant was she'd catch a glimpse of a tooth fairy hanging around during a bar fight every so often.

What it meant now was she could see the dark cloaked men emerge from the shadows and tie her up. With a long piece of rope, they tied up her arms and legs, and then they gagged her. And then a body bag, which they padlocked. And chains around that. And then another body bag. They clearly weren't taking any risks- Susan couldn't blame them, she'd have done the same thing.

Then the men lifted the twisted ball of rope and chains between them and walked it outside. Susan could sense the unconscious bodies of her colleagues, propped up in cupboards discretely out of the way. They'd swept through the school cleanly, taking the path of least resistance with almost certainly supernatural efficiency and, most inconceivable of all, they'd caught her off guard. It took a lot of training to do that.

Which must mean they're Vetinari's men.

And sure enough, the men left the building and shuffled noiselessly towards a midnight carriage. A door opened and they unceremoniously threw her in. They probably didn't want her hurt too badly, as the many layers of sacks cushioned the impact. If they wanted her hurt, well, she was glad she didn't have too much of an imagination, but she couldn't say the same for the Patrician's men.*

She heard the crack of a whip, (or rather, she sensed it) and the carriage moved. The carriage's driver was after all a dark clerk, and therefore not one to expose themselves through loud cracking whips. No one was quite sure how, but Vetinari had long ago found a way to make a soundless whip. She reasoned this meant less energy was wasted as sound, so it could all be focused on inflicting pain.

The ride itself was as smooth as a tyrant would be accustomed to. Susan hadn't had as smooth a ride since Binky, and to pass the time, she set about trying to figure out how exactly Vetinari achieved this. She reminded herself of Bobby Joist, a fellow teacher, famed for his D.I.Y. attitude*. He'd once told her of a new idea that the Artificers' Guild were getting excited about which absorbed impacts to make journeys smoother. It wasn't exactly magic, although sometimes, he said, the ride went really too smoothly. Suspiciously smoothly.

He said it was called suspense. She could see why.

They were still driving, so Susan set herself a new challenge. All the prime numbers up to a hundred… Now a thousand… Seriously? Were they not there yet? Fine. Ten thousand… Ugh.

She liked numbers. Or, at least, she appreciated their existence. You could tell what was coming next with numbers, or at least, with enough information, you could figure it out. It astounded her, not for the first time, that somehow humankind had invented a logical, foolproof way to figure out their universe and yet very few of them paid any attention at all to it. She suspected Vetinari did though. He probably made it his job to know.

The carriage stopped. The driver dismounted and walked until Susan could no longer sense them. It wasn't that the driver was far away. She wasn't sure what it was. Maybe the driver had gone somewhere with some strong magical interference, or maybe they just knew how to hide from her. She challenged herself to think how the latter was possible, but it wasn't exactly as simple as high mathematics.

The door to the carriage eased open, again, silently. And suddenly, in front of her, the driver's presence was back. At least, it felt like the driver, except for something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It hurt to even try.

She heard herself give a small cry of pain. She was awake again, but the body bag she was in still kept everything pitch black. The driver heard too, and gestured for the four clerks to leave. The faintest of taps on the wooden floor told her they were following those orders. The door closed. And the driver raised a knife.

Susan tried to squirm, or curl herself away, but the bags and the chains were keeping her perfectly still. Although she was suddenly very aware that even though her body was covered in chains and ropes from head to foot, there was one uncovered spot right where her heart was.

The knife came down in a slash.

And the bag split. In fact, do did the chains. All Susan's bonds were sliced open in a flawless straight line. It didn't make it any brighter, because the inside of the Patrician's carriage was the same shade of black as the outside, and if it wasn't for her ABILITIES, she'd still be blinded by the night. As it was, she could only see an onyx cloak, and coming out of it, an obsidian glove, sheathing a midnight blade.*

Click.

A dull roar grew and grew. Suddenly there was a fire on the street and a light inside the carriage. A glaring red thinned the shadows and separated the shades. A black goatee stood out against the flickering red light the fire cast.

Gloved hands pulled down the hood and the Patrician stared back at her.

"Hello, my dear."

"Pleausszz…" She stopped. Her lips were still numb from the sedative. Ahem. "Pleasss don't call me 'my dear'." She glared.

"Would you prefer 'my prisoner'?" He replied, raising an eyebrow.

"I think it's fairly obvious I don't." Two could play at the eyebrow game.

"Maybe you'd prefer your name, Susan Sto Helit?"

She'd be shocked he knew her name if it wasn't so logical. If you're going to kidnap someone, you should know who they are first.

"Okay, now why am I here?"

"Before I tell you that; let me tell you a little bit about a hobby of mine."

"Is this going to be one of _those_ talks?"

"A Duchess like yourself is no doubt familiar with the art of heraldry," He didn't even pause. "Important lineages aggrandising themselves through coats of arms and the like?"

"Like that one?" She asked, coyly, pointing to the black shield hanging above his head. She hoped she'd hidden her facial tic when he'd mentioned lineages. Surely he couldn't know?

"Your family motto caught my eye: Non Timetis Messor…"

Yes, he knew.

"Now, in studying heraldry," he continued "one must also study said families."

"You know about my grandfather?" She said, trying to sound unimpressed.

"Technically I know about all three, if you include your biological grandfathers, but I suspect you know which one I'm interested in."

"Oh dear, you're not hiring me because my grand-dad is famous, are you? I thought we'd got rid of nepotism." She tried to keep calm, keep laughing, but all the while she could feel her hair getting bushier by the second.

"Ah-ha." He laughed humourlessly. "Well, to put it gently, let's say I want a word with him."

"That's big talk for someone who drives his own cab." She smirked. "I mean, surely you have people for that? Say… four people whose skills include kidnapping and mixing sedatives?"

"Ah, your welcome party. My apologies. I fear they were necessary, as I couldn't be certain how you'd respond to what I'm about to say."

She couldn't help but notice how he'd completely avoided the question.

"And what are you about to say?" Her voice was bubbling with anger and in danger of becoming CAPITALISED.

Vetinari manipulated his fingers into a conspiratorial tent and paused…

"I'm declaring a War on Death."

* * *

*Actually, of the four kidnappers, two were female, three had only immigrated to Ankh Morpork recently, and only one was technically alive. With their faces uncovered, you might even mistake them for the cover of a university prospectus.

.  
* Susan: "Would you have a look at the lock on this door? It's jammed."

Joist: "Do it yourself."

.  
*After visiting Death's house, you had to learn to differentiate different shades of black. Susan used synonyms. 


	9. Caps Lock

A War on Death?

Susan's jaw hung agape. How could he even begin to suggest such a thing? The consequences could be catastrophic. Why would he even want to? He wouldn't stand a chance.

Would he?

"And what do you need me for?" She scathed. "Your hostage?"

"It's certainly tempting, and perhaps an added bonus in the event that the tides turn."

His? With a capital H?* You were supposed to reserve that for Gods weren't you? Susan wasn't sure how to feel about that. On one hand, he was her grandfather, just an old man with old stories. But on the other, He'd taken the lives of Gods and Kings and would ravage the multiverse until the End of Time.

Unless something happened to Him…

She was abruptly reminded of the fact that Vetinari was still talking.

"No, I'm afraid I can't divulge the nature of your role in our little odyssey until A) the rest of our troupe arrive…"

Could anything happen to Him? There'd been a close call one Hogswatch night, but she never even considered the possibility of Him dying, (ironically).

He was a manmade concept, an anthropomorphic personification, but he was also a Fact: the most unavoidable Fact of all.

"And B) you have proven yourself trustworthy."

Right now, she didn't give a damn whether or not she was trustworthy. The very nature of humanity could hang in the balance right now and she was guilting herself for wanting to find out if it could work. It'd be a niggle in the back of her mind for years.

"But the question is, of course, how do I get you on my side?"

She made a sarcastic comment subconsciously; "Kidnapping's always a good start."

"I must apologise, but I think you'll agree it's not nearly as bad as what Death has done to the world."

"Mm." She went back into her calculations. She wasn't one for monologues, but she was too distracted to even bother derailing him.

"I put a great deal of thought into how to convince you, I hope you realise. The least you could do is pay attention."

She nodded non-committaly, but once again, a puzzle had reared its head.

"I gather family is rather important to people these days."

"And Death is the only family I have left." She said before he could. She always made sure to say these things first, to make sure people couldn't use it against her.

Vetinari sneered. "And whose fault is that?"

Well that wasn't His fault, was it? Hadn't He done what He could? Hadn't they wanted to go that way? Not that it mattered. He could have stopped it. He could have kept them alive so she didn't grow up alone. She could have lived a life undefined by loss.

A nagging voice in the back of her head told her if it weren't for Death adopting her mother or taking on her father, she wouldn't exist, but it was very rare that emotions were in charge in Susan's head, and they were determined to have their moment in the sun before losing the throne.

"I know about the orphanage. The long lonely years at the boarding school. All those days wishing you could be just like the other kids. All that time yearning for a normal life. It could have all been yours."

"I'm not a could-have-been person." Her voice hardened and her hair strained against the tight bun.

"No, but I know what you are." His voice was soft, and all the more commanding for it. "You're angry."

She was.

"You're always angry. It fuels you. I know the sort; they're driven, determined, they get themselves in power. Always successful, never happy."

He was right. No, Susan, it was manipulative pseudo-psychology, you know this. It's like every pedlar of astrological crap you've ever torn a new one, only better applied. But he had a point.

"All I want is for you to find your peace, and if I can get something out of it, all the better."

You don't care. You're only in this to further your own ends. For whatever reason, he needs me and he's trying to spin this like it's all for me. But that wasn't what she said. What she did say was:

"You want Death gone?"

"I want Him dead."

"Why?"

"Not yet." He sank back into his chair and stared at her like the world was chequered and she had a flat bottom. "Only when I know you're on my side."

You Manipulative Bastard, you're using MY anger against me. And it's getting Much Harder to Keep my CapiTals UndeR CoNtRoL.

"Are you in?"

Susan took a deep breath and answered.

YES.

"Excellent." Vetinari allowed himself a smile and produced a wine bottle and two glasses from one of the many secret compartments of the carriage. Susan watched him pout them, but only drank once he'd taken the first sip. The wine was good, and rich in subtlety; the sort of flavour that you could boast about to friends to seem cultured.

But it was old. The grapes lived a long life in the sun, reaping the benefits, never knowing what they were getting in to, until it was too late and the bottle was corked behind them. Then the wine was left to mature for many, many years under careful supervision, in a bottle in a cellar where it could be corrupted in only the right ways, while the farmer waited until the time was right.

Until it was time for that red liquid to pour out.

They drove away with one of the clerks in the driver's seat. They left the fire blazing, although there was very little left to burn. She asked about the fire, but the man was as inscrutable as steel. The only time he spoke since was to stop the coach.

A split second afterwards, a thud bounced off the wall as someone fell painfully down, cursing and muttering something self-pitying.

"Ah, I do believe that's the next member of our little party. Do come in, Mr Rincewind."

* * *

*In much the same way that when Death speaks, the words go straight into your mind, when someone speaks to her, the words (spelling, punctuation, et al) will appear in Susan's. The number of misplaced apostrophes she'd seen in her lifetime was enough to put anyone in a comma.


	10. Blood, Guts and Igor

The Holding Cells of the Ankh Morpork Watch House were, as a rule, not supposed to be on fire. However, since this was where the people with a penchant for rule-breaking got put, the current conflagration was not exactly unfounded.

It licked its way around the cell as the two on-duty watch officers ran around with buckets of sand. From their cells, you could hear inmates egging the fire on and insulting the officers' sand-throwing technique.

Igor, on the other hand, was sitting on his bench and twiddling his thumbs, (which is a lot more difficult when you have four) and trying to figure out what exactly in a stone penitentiary could possibly be on fire.

Then something happened that made his* ears twitch: the cheering had stopped. Maybe they'd lost interest in the firefight- it certainly seemed to Igor that it was very one sided, but there was so little to do in here that almost anything was good sport. They'd once played I Spy with a blind man.

Igor tried to slow down his heart- sometimes this meant temporarily removing it and hitting it a little- but thankfully not this time. He just reminded himself that the guards and the prisoners couldn't possibly have died in the fire, because personal experience had taught him people burning alive were invariably noisy.

But the fire didn't seem to be going out…

Had they left the prisoners to die, only looking out for themselves? Who watches the watchman indeed. No-one was watching out for us jail rats.

It seemed to take an age, but the next thing he heard, he recognised. Someone was obviously trying to speak but gagging on their own blood. Why, the last time he'd heard that he was working for Count Sardick the Sharp, just after he'd defeated his arch nemesis in mortal combat. Oh, how they'd drank that night! Igor had had to get a new liver afterwards. Luckily one had recently become available.

He suddenly realised that not every connotation of a stabbing was a happy one.

This probably meant someone had set the fire deliberately and wanted someone here dead. Igor could feel his heart again. He'd obviously done a good job on improving it because it was beating 150 times a minute.

And there was the stabber. Tall, goateed, blade in hand, and, he noticed, another one being pocketed. The face was familiar, and had Igor been in Ankh Morpork longer, he'd have recognised it instantly. Although Vetinari never gave him time to forget it.

A blade appeared in Igor's heart and blood started pouring out. He fell to his knees, making the same sound he'd heard a moment ago.

Vetinari slid through the bars like a snake and stood over him, the fire casting him in shadow. He leant down and tugged at Igor's ear until it was only held on by a few stitches.

He spoke softly into his ear; in a voice no-one would even think to associate with a killer. Instructions. Then he stared right into his eyes. _Understood?_

Igor nodded desperately. He'd agree to anything right now. Vetinari had just offered him a way out hadn't he? All he needed to do was follow instructions, get out of here and find a new heart…

"When you see the hooded man…" he'd said.

Even in the shadow, Igor could see Vetinari's shark-like smile. Then he'd thrown him to the floor, wrenching the ear from his head and dropping it. Igor tried to scream, but his mouth was too full of blood.

Vetinari stepped backwards, blending through the cell bars and leaving as quietly as he'd come. Igor tried to follow him, but he couldn't fit through the gap. Frantically he tore at the stitching at his shoulders, trying desperately to rid himself of whatever width he could.

He cast one arm off and was half way through the other when he died, his body half in, half out of the cell, collapsed over the scolding metal.

But it didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would, he reflected, looking down on the scene. There were much more unpleasant ways to go- he'd even helped design a few back in his evil minion days- but at least he'd died at the hands of an avenging hero; that was almost a tradition in his family.

He didn't know the man's face though, so how could it be an avenging hero? Who was there for him to avenge? Come to think of it, that wasn't exactly heroic. The man had killed him while he was helpless. And he'd killed everyone else too.

Hang on- killed?

Then it dawned on him. He was dead. He looked once again at his body. It was difficult enough to call it his body when he was in it, what with all the replacements and upgrades, but now, empty and half-consumed by flame, it was almost impossible.

SORRY I'M LATE.

Igor turned. Behind him stood a seven foot tall skeleton clothed in darkest night. It was holding an hourglass.

IT'S ALL BEEN A BIT CONFUSING SINCE THEY BROUGHT IN DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME.

Igor nodded. "Tho I'm dead" he observed.

YES.

"What happenth now?"

I HAVEN'T THE FAINTEST IDEA.

"Really?"

SOME SCHOOLS OF THOUGHT SAY THAT WHEN AN IGOR DIES, THEY'RE REUNITED WITH THEIR OLD BODY.

Igor looked down. Every joint was laced with stitches still, but some fixtures were different. His ear seemed to have returned. He shrugged.

OTHERS SAY YOUR SOUL SPLITS UP AND LIVES ON IN THE BODY PARTS THAT YOU'VE DONATED.

Igor couldn't help but notice the stress he was putting on the 's' sounds.

"I thtill theem to be in one piethe."

PERPLEXING ISN'T IT.

"You're not going to tell me which?"

I FIND THE DECEASED TENDS TO KNOW BEST.

"Tho I get to choothe? One of thothe two?"

NOT NECESSARILY.

"I can dethide what I want?"

YOU CAN INDEED. Death clacked his bony finger against his wrist.

"Maybe my thoul ith a mithture of lotth of soulth from all the bodieth and in paradithe I thpend eternity with them until our thouls merge?"

SOUNDS NICE.

"Can I do that, then?"

Death raised his scythe, ready to swing. One last thought occurred to Igor.

"You're a hooded man."

I SUPPOSE.

"My killer thaid to give you a meththage. He said "Tell him I'm coming for him"… Doth that mean anything to you?"

Death swung.

* * *

*Though Igors technically didn't have genders, this Igor had chosen what looked like the least problematic of the urine expulsion systems and the loosely applied pronouns that went with it. Currently, the system was working overtime.


	11. Waiting

Moist was more than usually aware of the existence of werewolves. The werewolf was even more of the existence of Moist. He certainly lived up to his name- fluid, slippery, and at the moment, sweaty.

Angua had always had her suspicions about him- he wore a different cologne every time she saw him, a perpetually stainless jacket and a past so clean that it didn't actually exist*. But, in the words of commander Vimes, it wasn't worth the effort to arrest him; he said you'd need three cells to hold him: one for him, one for his suits and one for his impossibly large 'nads.

Vimes had been smiling when he'd said it, though- and he didn't do that often. She suspected he saw a lot of himself in Moist- and not only because of his reflective suit. They both had that look about them – the look that they'd made something from nothing and weren't done yet. They were both civil servants who reluctantly answered to lord Vetinari. And, probably as a result of the latter, they were both conniving bastards.

But the adventurous persona seemed to be slipping away from him. Maybe it was because there wasn't much showboating to do in the Patrician's waiting room, or maybe it was because she could see wrinkles emerging on his usually unremarkable face, but he seemed subdued, slouching on his chair.

He looked up to see her looking in his direction* and suddenly straightened himself up. With a straightening of his tie and a small sigh, he slid back into his public face. He smiled at her; not a winning smile, more a silver smile who secretly resented the winning smile but wouldn't show it, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled it out just enough for Angua to see a corner of the black envelope.

"You too?" he mouthed.

Angua gave a disconcerted nod and pulled out her own. He nodded. Both scanned the room for any others that might have received one. There weren't any other differently alive people her, Angua noted. Only bureaucrats and heads of lesser guilds and no more than ten in total.

She'd got all that in a sniff, but the postman was taking his time, only chancing a look when he could be sure no-one was looking. She'd seen that look before, in herself and other werewolves- checking to see if anyone was concealing a burning torch or an angry mob beneath their clothing. Lipwig definitely wasn't though, so why the shifty glances?

Perhaps it was the look of someone who knew they'd had it too good for too long and was wondering if anyone had figured him out yet. He ought to have more confidence in himself, she begrudgingly admitted. I still haven't.

Seemingly satisfied that no-one else here was part of the black letter club, he once again adopted a confident exterior. Taking off his hat and flicking his hair, he turned back to her, pulling a confused face. He doesn't know why he's here either. Had Vetinari brought them both here for her to arrest him? No, that wasn't his style. He wouldn't ever let you see the strings.

The doors slid open silently and in stumbled a jumbled mess of red fabric and foil stars. Atop his head was a wide brimmed hat, with a fold in it from where he ran into Vetinari's carriage and the word "wizzard" spelled out on his hat in mismatched letters like an embarrassed murderer/stalker would.

Behind him and somewhat more elegantly walked Susan, hair bristling, face pulled back into a scowl and a jet-black robe sweeping noiselessly over the ground. And a few steps behind was Vetinari, eyes effortlessly watching all four of the letter holders without the slightest movement or blink.

He strode across the waiting room to his office, the uneven tick and tock of his clock organising themselves to his footsteps. Without looking back, he raised a black gloved hand. "Mr Lipwig, Miss Uberwald, Mr Rincewind and Ms Sto Helit, come with me. The rest… don't let me detain you."

Everyone knew what that meant. Run. But be civilised about it.

The mix of guild officials disbanded, protests of "but we've been waiting for hours" dying on their lips as their brains thought better of it. Only when they were safely outside the Patrician's Palace did any of them discuss the fact that this had never happened before.

"…He's usually regular as clockwork…"

"…Shame I never got to go to into his office…"

"…Always puts the business of the city first…"

"…Really wanted to use the Patrician's toilet…"

"…Didn't even know he had a life outside that office…"

"…Bet it beats pissing inna bucket…"

"…Didn't there used to be a chap to sort out the waiting room?..."

* * *

*Angua's distrust of the gilded swindler permeated into anyone in his employ as well. To this day, Angua still lets out a primal growl every time the post is delivered. It was a stereotype, she knew, but it was also a tradition.

*a common mistake- her eyes were just following her nose.


	12. Declaration of War

"Any objections?"

"Yes. Lots."

"Anyone besides Rincewind?"

"I'm sure the laws of common sense object too."

"In their absence, perhaps someone here would like to contribute?"

It was hard to say no when the one who asks is a master assassin with a room full of sharp objects all inexplicably pointing at you, however Moist was glad that at least one person in the room had sensible opinions about this.

A War on Death? Half the words in that sentence alone were already on Moist's no-no list. Two words that you couldn't avoid and Moist _liked _avoiding things. And yet Vetinari was expecting them to volunteer willingly.

"That's a 'yes' from the ladies…"

He'd heard horror stories from the war in Borogravia, used some of them to make a sympathy sale once. It had taken an age to master the accent, but fake war buddies make for loyal customers. However, no amount of money could make war something he wanted to experience firsthand.

"And a 'no' from Rincewind, but I'm sure we can work around that…"

And he'd heard even more stories about death. It seemed all the 'great' books were about it and man's struggles to evade it, always fruitlessly. He'd read a few, not that he'd ever admit it, because you can't fool someone if they think you're smarter than them. All they had taught him was that escaping death was by definition impossible.

Did I just think the 'I' word? That wasn't good. My doctor says I'm not supposed to do that any more. It's bad for my health and worse, it's addictive.

"Mr Spangler?"

He looked up. Damn.

"Sorry, Moist." For a moment, Moist almost believed it had been an accident. "We're waiting on your answer…"

Oh Gods, he's not going to play that card, is he? That stupid, childish tactic? The worst thing was, it would probably work on him right now.

"…If anyone was up for a challenge, it would be our Mr Lipwig, would it not?"

Bastard. Still there's only the five of us in this room. He could live with four people knowing the sun shone from somewhere other than his arse, surely? It seemed a reasonable sacrifice in place of his life. Oh, but that wasn't Vetinari's way, was it? The volunteering was only a formality. Only a way for him to remind you whatever danger you found yourself in later was your idea. He'd have leverage on everyone here, of course. He probably knew something of Angua's lupine activities that were best kept hidden. Susan reminded Moist of an old uppity headmistress, so maybe he could close down her school? And Rincewind looked like he'd do anything to avoid certain death for even a minute.

And of course, he had absolute power over Moist. He could take back the post office, the mint, the clacks, his money, his suits, Adora and of course he'd had Moist's life in his hands ever since he ended it in the first place.

"Sounds like fun." He smiled.

"Are you mad?"

"Thank you Mr Lipwig."

"All of you are mad."

"You're free to leave any time you want" Vetinari offered, waving towards a door that was almost certainly not the one they came in from. Moist remembered that door well.*

"I'm guessing there's a man with a crossbow behind that door?" Close. "Or spikes or a bottomless pit?"

"I couldn't possibly comment."

Rincewind sighed. "If I leave now, I'm dead. If I follow you, I'm dead. Can I just sit here and cry until all this is over?"

If a shark had lips, it would look like lord Vetinari.

"But Mr Rincewind, we were relying on your skills as a Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography. I was rather hoping you'd direct our little enterprise."

"Okay, yes. Let's go over there. All the way over there where it's safe." He corrected himself. "Safer."

Vetinari looked down at his desk. "Fascinating." He checked a map. "That is actually uncanny."

"So…" said Rincewind in the voice of someone not used to being listened to. "You're going to take my advice? Go that way?"

"Oh good Heavens no." he almost laughed. "No, you just confirmed a theory of mine."

Moist noticed he wasn't doing much talking, which was new for him. The werewolf and the posh looking woman weren't either. It seemed like the best thing to do right now.

"They say, Mr Rincewind, have a knack for avoiding Certain Death."

Even Moist had heard that. He'd lost the front page to him that day.

"How?"

"By running, mostly."

"In exactly the opposite direction to wherever the Certain Death is?"

"Yes?"

"Exactly the opposite direction…" Susan repeated.

"And, you see, you pointed over there, towards Dragon's Landing, which by my calculation has a bearing of 14.14 degrees from North. Now what would you guess is in exactly the opposite direction?"

Their heads turned as one towards the only window in the room and they looked out. The ramshackle shamble of Ankh Morpork roofs filled their view. The city was crowded, with buildings pressing into each other and pushing out, advancing, evolving in the messiest way possible, and anywhere you looked, you'd find an anarchic cross section of life (and undeath) and novelty.

But even with all this, there was still only one thing Lord Vetinari could be pointing at; a building towering over the city like a middle finger over a closed fist.

The Unseen University.

"If we want to find Death," Vetinari pontificated, "That's where we have to go."

"Bugger."

* * *

*Or rather, that door/well. Ah-ha.


	13. The Turning Up of the Books

If you ever go to Unseen University's library, which you were only likely to do if you were either wearing a lead-lined suit or a part of the university's dangerous sports society, be sure to invest in a ladder. It was a well known fact that the UU librarian was fiercely protective of his books, especially his favourite ones. Somewhere atop the bookshelves there was a nest of leather and parchment reserved for the private enjoyment of a certain orang-utan.

He was up there at the moment, ensconced in a heavy-bound tome of metaphysical translocation. But because the librarian was an ape of many talents, he was holding it in his feet as one hand fed a banana into his mouth a nibble at a time. His remaining hand was stroking his chin thoughtfully, as he had seen some of the more pretentious students do. It didn't help him understand the theory any better, but it was good for picking up any straggling banana bits.

It was a nice little home he'd built for himself. Full of books he'd read again and again, their presence familiar and reassuring, stacked into a protective igloo, with slits between the spines just large enough for simian eyes to spy through.

The ginger hair on the back of his knuckles bristled. Ever since a stray spell from the Octavo turned him into an ape, he, or more specifically his morphic field, had been sensitive to magical disturbances. But this wasn't some magic ape sense; no, this pre-dated that by several years. It was a skill honed by years of careful study; not of literature, but of books themselves. His librarian sense was tingling.

"Ook?"

He closed his book and laid it down gently, remembering his page in his mind. The proper treatment of the books came first, however urgent the situation. He checked the spine and slotted it back into the appropriate place in the igloo. Then he leapt from his nest and swung into action, clanging from chain to dangling chain, brilliantly avoiding the strictly enforced 'no running in the library' policy.

Books, he knew, weren't just the work of an author, no matter how magical they were. There was magic in word, as all magicians knew, but there was more to books than even that. The parchment and the bindings were merely a cocoon to let the ideas ferment and grow until they were ready to venture out into the world and spread their seeds in the minds of humanity. The words were the same, always the same, but there was more the books than words. The books lived behind the words, in the meaning and the cadence and the emotion, in the nameless sensations that changed with every read and meant something new every time.

He let go of the chains and grappled onto the iron shelves of the fiction section. It was here that he could feel the disturbance among the chattering books.

The books were alive in their own way, with their faceless characters and their moving plots and the emotions that they rent with only ink on paper. And with that life came a small sense of self preservation and a desperate need to flee from their predators. Something new was coming, something novel.

"OOK?!"

They clanged against their chains and battered into their shelves. Dust jackets were dented, pages were crumpled and spines were fraying. They could feel it coming, a story uniting all the threads of narrative across this strange little world by devouring them, and they could feel it converging on the epicentre like a spider on its prey.

The books were scared.

It was coming here.


	14. The Time and the Palace

The Patrician's palace was not the largest place; most of its volume came from its height and not its slender base, the likes of which would make any health and safety inspector shirk. It made up for its lack of interior space with a masochistic pilgrimage of staircases. They'd been commissioned by the Patrician from an architect who – and he'd made absolutely sure of this – was not 'Bloody Stupid' Johnson.

The purpose of the staircases was two-fold, (and probably many more-fold if you could see inside the Patrician's mind) and they were to give any gaggle of guild leaders a sense of purpose as they strode around unproductively and more importantly, as both mental and physical punishment for those who betrayed the Patrician, or worse, annoyed him. He recalled a time he'd had Drumknott summon and then dismiss the replacement Times crossword editor six times in one day to make him pay for a sloppy spelling error. After that, Vetinari was confident, he'd have plenty of time to sit down and hone his craft.

And, of course, it gave you plenty of time for walking and talking. Angua, who had patrolled every street in Ankh Morpork a hundred times over, both on two legs and four, was naturally very good at walking. Moist, who was quite some ways behind her, was not. But he seemed to be very good at talking, much to the contempt of Susan next to him.

"Howdy," He proffered a hand. "Name's Moist."

"Susan Sto Helit" She replied stiffly, a result of many years of expensive education without any friendship-making classes.

"Charmed" he smiled, wondering if it would be proper etiquette to kiss her hand, before seeing the rage in her eyes and deciding against it. But Moist was never one to give up. "I'm guessing you're a teacher?" He said, thinking 'teacher' was more likely than 'empress'.

"Head teacher, actually."

"All teachers teach heads." He grinned. She didn't. Not a fan of wordplay, then. He changed tactic; "Except gym teachers."

It had long been theorised that there must be a unit of matter so small that it can not be subdivided any further, and Unseen University was currently trying to discover its exact dimensions. They still had some experimenting to do, but they'd got it right to three significant figures. It was, needless to say, a very small unit.

It was also exactly the same distance the corner of Susan's mouth went up.

But Moist saw it, and he pressed his advantage.

"So what brings you into our little war?"

"Family troubles."

"What a vague answer."

"We're only vaguely family."

Angua pricked an ear up, she'd seen enough conversations like this on duty and they tended to precede domestic disturbances. She couldn't help but think Moist was steering straight into disaster- but maybe it'd serve him right. The man had a smile like a cereal box mascot.

"Death in the family?"

"Something like that." Susan deadpanned.

She sighed. Best to step in before the team splintered pre-emptively.

"Gods. Let's get this all out in the open." Angua said flatly. "Susan, I'm here because it's my duty to protect the People, the Watch, the City and then, very far down the list, the Patrician. Rincewind is here because if he doesn't he'll die and Moist, I assume, is here because he's the Patrician's pet."

"Hey!" Big words from an actual dog.

"Then why are you here?" She glared. "Because Vetinari dared you?"

"Same as you. Civil Service, fear of death, all that nonsense." He half-lied.

"Right. Those are our reasons. What're yours?"

"Death in the family." Susan responded calmly, if angrily. "Also, a rather inconvenient kidnapping."

"Why would Vetinari kidnap a teacher?"

"Why would he recruit a postman?"

"I'm not a postman."

"At least conscripting a wizard makes sense."

"I wish it didn't." came a depressed voice from down the stairs.

"Why us four?"

"I know why it's me." The wizard volunteered.

"Why?"

"Because it's always me." bemoaned Rincewind.

"It's something to do with Death, surely." Angua interjected, keen to get as far away from Rincewind's pessimism as possible. "He wouldn't be talking about it if it wasn't."

"Well I've died once." Proffered Moist

"Really?" Rincewind perked up. Finally someone knew what he was going through. "You saw all those demons too?"

"No, I suppose I haven't died technically, only officially."

"Shame." And back to pessimism, he thought glumly.

"What about you two? Died recently, have you?"

"I'm a werewolf, but I didn't die for it."

Moist made a mental note of 'I was right', while Rincewind edged slowly closer to the wall.

"There must be something. Susan, you said you lost someone?"

"That's not what I sa-"

"Who was it, your parents, a sibling?"

"No, the parents died a while back and I don't have any siblings."

"Same here"

"And me"

"I had a brother," Angua volunteered. "Emphasis on had."

"Sorry."

"It's alright. He killed people."

"Oh."

"I don't." Angua held up her hands defensively.

Rincewind felt at this point it was impossible to get any closer to the wall.

"So all of us are orphans. All on our own."

"I suppose we all have a reason to get back at Death, but Ankh Morpork's a busy town. You can't walk through a marketplace without someone dying of food poisoning. Surely there are other orphans than us?"

Vetinari could hear them all bickering behind him, trying to figure out his secret, all while forgetting him. He let himself sneak into the darkness and become one with it, until they couldn't see or feel him. He could easily pull out a dagger and sever all the veins in their neck before they could even blink. It'd been a while since he'd done that.

At the bottom of the staircase, dark clerks flanked their party. One opened a door to the outside world, which was appropriately dark, to reveal an empty street unbefitting a palace. The stairs had taken them through his secret passage, under the city and then back onto ground level. It'd been put there by an old Patrician who believed he could pretend to be a pauper and get to know his subjects. That Patrician lasted three days before getting killed in a bar brawl. Besides, Vetinari had no use for it anyway. He had no intention of ever letting anyone think him their equal.

Outside was his coach; not his usual ostentatious model, but a slimmer, quicker, blacker carriage, free from unnecessary comfort and weight and with all the clunky extras, like visibility, removed. A dark clerk was waiting on top, in whipping distance of a stealth horse, so named because its horse shoes were slippers and it would only walk on tip toe.

He thought back to his chosen few. Each highly intelligent in their own way and skilled in another, but as any Thud! player will tell you, you're only as good as your last game. As such, he was keeping them on their toes. They had one secret to work on at the moment; somewhere between busy work and a test of ingenuity. A little puzzle to keep them distracted from the ramifications of what they were about to do. Why had he chosen them for this? What made them special?

He marvelled at the simplicity of the puzzle. It wasn't as if he could claim all the credit of course; it was the same one that had troubled every life form ever to get out of the sea and dry itself off. Oh there had been variations of The Question for years, but when you took off all the specifics and the addendums, it all basically boiled down to the classic, "Why are we here?"

And though everyone who knew Vetinari suspected him of knowing more than he lets on, they'd never have guessed he knew The Answer.

Which was a shame, because it was rather amusing.


	15. Momento Mori

ALBERT?

"Yes, master?"

HAVE YOU EVER NOTICED PEOPLE DON'T SEEM TO LIKE ME VERY MUCH?

"Well, yeah, but maybe that's because they haven't gotten to know you."

EVERYONE DOES EVENTUALLY

"Although if you're trying to make friends, I'd leave out the nihilism. Let the Tsortean slaves do the '_momento mori_'s

I MET AN EMPEROR WHO SAID THAT ONCE.

"Really?"

YES, I APPEARED AND HE STARTED BEGGING. HE SAID HE WANTED A MOMENT MORE.

"Was that a pune?"

OF A TSORT.

"So people don't like you, huh? Hard to believe."

IT DOES RATHER LOWER MORALE.

"But then I didn't like you at first. Did everything I could to escape you, remember?"

I REMEMBER EVERYTHING.

"I've noticed. When was the last time I cleaned up around here?"

FIFTY SEVEN POINT ONE FIVE SIX RELATIVE YEARS AGO.

"You see my point? Compulsive pedantry don't make you many friends."

NEITHER DOES KEEPING A HIGHLY ENTROPIC HOME.

"We're getting a little away from the point. Which is that after spending two hundre-"

THREE HUNDRED AND FIVE POINT SEVEN…

"After spending lotsa time with you…"

AND BEING MY ETERNAL SERVANT

"And being your slave." He tried to eyeball Death but it failed for two reasons: 1) Death was at least three feet taller and 2) He didn't have eyeballs. "…I can see that you're not as bad a guy as I originally thought."

THANK YOU. I APPRECIATE IT.

"I think what they don't like about you is your job description."

DO YOU THINK I'VE BECOME THE SORT OF BEING WHOSE JOB IS THE ONLY THING ABOUT THEM?

"Course not. Mind you, you might want to consider changing your name."

IT DOES APPEAR TO BE AN APTRONYM.

"Wossat?"

AN APTRONYM. IT'S WHEN YOUR NAME REFLECTS YOUR OCCUPATION.

"Certainly apt."

Death nodded.

"I wouldn't worry. 'S the curse of anthropomorphic personifications everywhere."

I DON'T EVEN GET PAID.

"At least you get the satisfaction of a job well done, not like repeatedly sweeping up turds."

EXCEPTIONALLY WELL DONE.

"but you do seem to have a life of your own, if you'll pardon the expression."

YES. I HAVE A FAMILY.

"Susan's a lovely girl. Bit bossy."

AND A FEW PETS.

"Yes you do!" He said, patting Death on the lower back, for want of height. And then, in a quieter voice, "an' they craps a lot for animals that don't eat nothin'."

DO YOU THINK I SHOULD GET A CAT, ALBERT?

"No, master."

NOT EVEN A SMALL ONE?

"No. A horse an' a raven's prob'ly enough, don't you think?"

SQUEAK.

IT'S UNKIND OF YOU TO FORGET HIM, ALBERT.

"Sorry, I count animals by turds, mostly. Ratty here's not a problem."

SQUEAK.

"You're welcome."

SQUEAK.

NEWS?

SQUEAK

INTERESTING.

SQUEAK.

VETINARI? IT'S BEEN A WHILE.

SQUEAK.

UNSEEN UNIVERSITY? THAT COMPLICATES MATTERS.

"Oooh. Tricky business, magic. Won't work, though. Didn't for me, and I'm the best there ever was."

THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE WILL STILL APPLY.

"How?"

I DON'T KNOW.

"Urgh. Bloody Quantum. You didn't bloody need it in my day. Jus' fireballs and lightning back then. Simpler times."

LOTS OF PEOPLE DIED THOUGH.

"You're telling me."

I AM TELLING YOU. AND YOU KNOW I HATE TO BE THE BEARER OF BAD NEWS.

"But you can sort Vetinari, can't you? Quick scythe in the back, then Bob's your uncle."

THAT IS NOT HOW IT WORKS. AND NO ONE IS MY UNCLE.

"So we just have to sit and wait?"

UNFORTUNATELY.

"You could send Susan in. She'd know what to do." He drew a finger over his throat. "Always knows what side she's on, even if most of the time it's her own."

SQUEAK.

"Oh."


	16. Quidditch Pro Quo

Foot-the-Ball, Munstrum Ridcully despaired, should have been a simple enough title. It wasn't like backgammon, which did not, as its name suggested, involve eating gammon off someone else's back, preferring counters and triangles, of all things. However, there were some things, regardless of their level of simplicity that would perpetually escape the Bursar.

"Put it down, man!" He bellowed. "There are no hands in 'foot-the-ball'!"

"Um, actually," announced the Dean, in the internationally recognised voice of someone who thinks they're being terribly clever, "the goalkeeper can use his hands within his area."

"Yes, thank you for your input." He snapped. All the while the Bursar was running towards the opposition's goal.

"Someone stop him!"

"Yes, referee, we need a ruling!"

The chair of inhumanities ran towards him, out of breath, and –being a newcomer to the sport- carrying the revised edition of the Official Illustrated UU-Approved Rulings (all 2387 pages*).

"Well it is definitely" and then he inhaled, looking like he was trying to suck the world in, "against the rules."

A wizard from the other side, sensing an advantage and a chance to be pedantic jogged up and insisted that he be shown the rule before his team-mate be penalised.

"Fine," wheezed the referee, this being the seventeenth time in as many minutes he'd had to look up a ruling. Wizards were staunchly anti-athletic, and bickering was as good a way as any to stop running and get your breath back. He hefted the lead-lined tome and thumbed through the pages, his breathing increasing as he went through certain pages, until he found the correct page. "You see? Handball." He announced, showing the ruling to the others, while hiding the other entries beginning with 'hand' under his sleeve.

"Okay." conceived the wizard, unaware that during this time the Bursar had taken the ball far from the pitch and was now shambling around in the broom closet.  
The wizards gasped. The Bursar was not allowed in the broom closet.

Luckily, the situation was resolved swiftly, as the Bursar was almost immediately expelled from the closet on the back of the wizarding equivalent of a break-dancing bull.

"Bloody hell, he's found a broomstick." bemoaned the Archchancellor. And then, before the Dean could make a comment along the lines of 'what else would he find in a broom closet?' he bellowed, "That chap there, get him down. You there; find some dried frog pills."

The Bursar still had the ball, and the argumentative wizard from before was arguing that even if the ball was dozens of feet in the air, it was still technically in play. The referee sighed and consulted the book again, meaning he was the only one with eyes not pointing to the sky.

It was at this point that the Bursar's broom decided that the direction of the flight was yet another thing no moderately sentient being should allow the Bursar control of. And since the Bursar's main aim was to stay in flight, that left one direction. Straight down.

And on to the head of the referee.

They say a wizard is nothing without his hat. This would indeed be true as, without the structural reinforcements that every wizard had built into his hat as a matter of course and self-preservation, the referee would now be a rather morbid umbrella stand. As it was, the ref was only concussed with a few broken bones and a Frisbee instead of a hat. Similarly, the bursar was upside down with his head between his legs, but the wizards weren't as fussed about this, as this was almost the Bursar's resting state.

But while all eyes were focused on the two dazed and shaken wizards a whistling sphere carved a parabola through the sky, swooping down…

GLOING

Gloing

Gloing… gloing… gloingloingloingloingloing…

The ball trickled slowly into the back of the net, where it set up camp and waited impatiently for someone to notice.

"Hey!"

There we go.

"That's a goal to us!" yelled the Dean.

"Actually," said a wizard on his team, "it went out of play when he was on the broom, so it doesn't count."

"Snitch."

Simultaneously, every wizard converged in on the argument. Their innate sense to have their voice listened to was picking up and herding them into a circle. It was not for nothing that the collective noun for wizards was a Squabble.

The Chief Astrologer argued that a pitch could not be classified as a pitch without the inclusion of a ball, and therefore the ball can never properly go out of play. The Arch Mathemagician claimed that since it was impossible to cross an infinite number of markers in a finite number of time, the ball could never actually cross the line. And the Chair of the Bleeding Obvious said it crossed the damn line and the others needed to get over themselves.  
Nevertheless, the bickering continued. One of the great things about wizards is their arguments aren't bound by the conventional laws of logic, so they could continue indefinitely. In fact, the Discworld's Second Law of Thermodynamics* meant that perpetual arguments were possible, and were doomed to get more heated and more disordered as time went on.

An invisible fence of diplomacy slithered its way between the wizarding factions and hushed them. The fence came about as a direct result of Vetinari stepping into sight.

"Hello gentlemen." He grinned. "I do hope I haven't interrupted anything."

Yes, you have, said the mind of Ridcully. You've interrupted the most powerful and volatile people in the world in the middle of their favourite sport; arguing. What his mouth, and in retrospect, his sanity, said was "Oh good heavens, no, my lord."

The man was staring right through him. The last time he'd seen the Patrician, he'd imparted the fact that most of the human body was actually empty space. Since then, Vetinari's stare suggested, he'd developed the theory further and knew exactly how to fill all of that space with knives.

"I don't suppose your man on the gates could let my associates in?"

Did we have a man on the gates? Vetinari knows more about the university than I do, he thought. Well, one way or another, we won't have a man there by the end of the day.

"Certainly." Where's my staff? I'll probably need it. "Here, Dean, see to it, will you?"

"But Archchancellor," said the Dean, not noticing the potential for imminent death, "what about the game?"  
Oh, Dean…

"Let me handle this." The voice came unexpectedly from Vetinari. "It's clearly out of play, as prescribed by the macroscopic and finite paradigm rulings. And since it was put there by the Bursar, it's a throw in to the team in red."

He saw the Bursar take it out of play. How long had he been there? Knowing Vetinari, even as little as he did, it could have been days.

"I do hope that's helpful." He said, as if he didn't know his answer had all the authority of a lion leading an army of ferrets into battle. Even the Dean could see that.

He scuttled off to the gates as fast as he could go without tripping over and rolling the rest of the way.

No-one dared say anything for a while.

Or for another while.

Half way through the third while, the Dean showed up followed by the rest of Vetinari's colour-coded party.

"Ah, Good." The 'Good' came out like a God judging its creation. "Now, Archchancellor, I'm going to have to ask you a favour."  
It was one of those favours you don't say no to. It was in fact, a favour Ridcully didn't say anything to, so Vetinari continued nonplussed.  
"I find myself in need of a book on ancient rites. More specifically the rite of AshkEnte. Perhaps you could lead me to your library?" 

* * *

*Wizards, beings whose minds contemplated the unimaginable and the unthinkable every day needed very firm rulings, as a simple "no using magic" wasn't so much a preventative measure as an invitation to a debate. As such, the revised rulebook contained every single thing they could think of that you would not be allowed to do.

In fact, during the writing of the rules, one undisclosed wizard had suggested that sexual activity should not be permitted during the game. This naturally meant that every single suggestive act they could think of had to be written down, and to avoid confusion, illustrated. These illustrations took up half the pages and a few sweaty but productive afternoons of the staff behind it.

It had been a few weeks later that someone had noticed the fact that an earlier ruling prohibited women taking part in the game. That rule was then unanimously overturned by the ever hopeful wizards (although none raised their hands from their current position over their laps) in what could quite possibly the most sexist act of equality ever issued.

*The first law of which is: You Don't Talk About Thermodynamics


	17. Civil Rites

Bad news travels quickly. In the case of sudden government inspections, it can travel between people faster than word-of-mouth. Even the wizards had yet to understand the principles behind it, but they did know that this was the reason that on the day OFSTED showed up unannounced, your teacher was unusually smiley and tolerant even before the first click of a pen.

In the case of Unseen University, this meant that by the time the gaggle of wizards had got Vetinari to the library ("we tried to stop him, honestly! But he just sort of… looked at us…") Ponder Stibbons and the Librarian were standing at the doors, sweat dripping off their fake smiles.

"Mr Stibbons, I believe" The Patrician extended a hand. Ponder took it, but only after an elbowing from the Librarian. He later admonished himself for failing to remind Vetinari that he was a doctor, thank you very much. Now he'd be Mr Stibbons all day.

"And…" Vetinari looked down to the weird ape thing. "Mr…?"

"Ook."

"Mr Ook." He knew it wasn't the librarian's name. Although he was one of the few who knew for sure, and this was only because of very careful filing going back decades. The Patrician sometimes liked to think of himself as a librarian of people.

Rincewind poked out from behind and mouthed the word "sorry" to them.

The Librarian shrugged back.

"Now, I require a book on the rite of AshkEnte." Ponder looked about to protest, when Vetinari reached into his pocket. "For this purpose, I had this made and licensed." He flicked the card in his hand around to reveal a picture of himself and the words Unseen University Library Card.

Well, thought Moist, at least I know he's putting that forger he 'hanged' to good use.

Ponder's objections died in his throat, caving before the official authority of the card. He had a creeping suspicion that if he looked in the school records, he'd find Vetinari's name. Somewhere nicely tucked away, no doubt, but nevertheless still undeniably there.

"Well," said Ponder Stibbons, with the sort of lengthy shudder to their voice that one's body puts in to postpone oblivion for a few seconds more. "That all seems to be in order."

"Ook."

"Oh yes. Well, by all means, go and look for a book." Ponder smiled. It might take the Patrician days to even find the section on necromancy and dark rites.

"That would be this way would it?" said the Patrician, pointing in exactly the right direction. "Well, after five rights and a left at the start of the necrolinguistic section, of course."

"Shi- I mean, yes, that's the way."

"Then I must be on my way."

"OOK!"

"Wait!"

The Patrician turned back to them. In retrospect, they weren't sure his feet moved. He just seemed to revolve on the spot.

"What?"

"Uh… let me get one for you."

"Ook."

"Let the librarian get one for you. He'll know a good one."

"Ook."

The Patrician sighed. "Very well."

In the field of inadvisable bravery, the act of the librarian taking the hand of the Patrician was sure to be a textbook example for years to come. The ape then led the ape descendant down the aisles of bookshelves, the hairy orange thing walking not so much with his feet, but with his whole body, making him look like a mobile shrug. Vetinari was finding it very difficult to maintain his dignity in this situation, but somehow it was still in place when they reached the, ah, rite section.

The librarian made to scamper up the shelves, but his hand was still in Vetinari's grip, which was surprisingly firm for a man of his age. The Patrician let it go a fraction later- a minute but effective show of power.

From the top shelf, the Librarian dangled upside down, holding a book which was lashing against his control. Its ribbon bookmark hissed like a tongue through the heavy lead caging that bound it. He was smiling- the Patrician wouldn't know what hit him.

He dropped it- aiming for Vetinari's skullcap. But, predictably, Vetinari caught it out of the air. At least when he opened the binding, the librarian thought hopefully, the book might tear him to pieces…

No. He was stroking it. It was like a baby in his arms.

Vetinari checked the index, then turned immediately to the page. At least it was a post-doctoral tome on highly advanced magicks. Every wizard worth his salt knew that half of all magic was sounding like you knew more than everyone else, which invariably meant that every magic book ever written was loaded with words so long and polysyllabic that they didn't regard the margins as No Man's Land so much as something to be filled. A doctoral dissertation, therefore, was graded on how far into the paper anyone could read before admitting defeat. Consequently, most of these words they used were made up, used incorrectly, or misspelt, but either way, it ought to knock the Patrician down a peg or two.

"Oh" he said, sounding disappointed. "Is that all?"

The Patrician slammed the book and the sound broke the very loud silence of the room.

"What's the Meaning of Life?" asked Ponder.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well since you know EVERYTHING…"

"Mr Stibbons…"

Ponder let out a cough that sounded remarkably like the word 'doctor'.

"Mr Stibbons" Vetinari continued, "I do not presume to know what reason providence deigned a suitable excuse to create this wretched world, nor its wretched people, but everyone keeps insisting there is one. On the other hand, I do believe I know the meaning of death, to wit: nil. It is a pointless endeavour and one which I have no intention of participating in. And, Mr Stibbons, if, in my city, there is something going on that serves no purpose, but nonetheless consumes resources at an alarming rate, do you know what I do to it?"

"Ook?"

"I _obliterate_ it."


	18. AshkEnte you shall recieve

Rincewind had spent enough time in his life fleeing from certain death to know that when things were going reasonably well and calmly for you, you really oughtn't to look a gift horse in the mouth. What Vetinari was doing, it seemed, was giving said gift horse a dental check-up without anaesthetic, and tutting when the horse lied about flossing twice a day.

The wizards had set up the octogram as precisely as possible, which was hard when their hands kept wavering in fear. One plucky young wizard had raised a hand, suggesting that he leave to fetch something to draw straight (although whether he had any intention of returning was another matter). All eyes turned to him, with an unspoken admiration; like that you'd give to an unknown soldier, before turning back to the all-to-well-known Vetinari.

His smile said it all. _Silly boy_, it mocked, _why search for a ruler when I'm right here?_

Rincewind looked back at the others: the fools who had been roped into this with him. At least none of them looked like this was going to be some sort of grand adventure. Rincewind hated when people did that. Those were the sort of people to cut through a battlefield unaware of everyone else's suffering and quite where their sword strayed.

And now magic was involved. There was a part of his brain wondering if Vetinari's unexpected knowledge of magic was a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, it meant you didn't get the sort of beginner's mistakes that left you with only ash-filled shoes, but on the other hand, Rincewind had seen the very best of wizards fall to higher magicks and their own arrogance.

The rest of his brain was trying desperately to think of when was the best time to run the hells away*.

None of the others were, or at least, he didn't think so. Susan's eyes were darting between the wizards, treating them almost like schoolchildren, and she was posed in the position that any experienced teacher recognised as the 'no, Nobby, put that DOWN!"*

Angua had her eyes closed, but her nose wide open- probably trying to adjust to the shifting nature of the library. In any strong magical field, eyes and ears were unreliable, but noses were valid currency anywhere.

Moist was chatting to a wizard. Rincewind recognised the tactic. As far as he knew, Moist knew nothing of magic, but he knew everything about people. And sure enough, the wizard was smiling and laughing, lulled into an ease by Moist's charm. He couldn't hear what they were saying, though. Did Moist just need something to take his mind off the quest, or was he trying to learn more about magic, so he could twist it round himself like he does with words?

Sometimes, Moist unnerved Rincewind even more than Vetinari. It occurred to him that in the event of a catastrophe, he was likely to run into the postman, and Moist would be running in the other direction.

Rincewind naturally distrusted anyone who welcomed disaster, but then again, he distrusted everyone. He hoped this approach would mean he'd be able to flee before something inevitably went wrong. It hadn't worked yet, but he remained hopeful.

The mass of Wizards around Vetinari caught his attention. He couldn't explain why. The closest he could manage was his run-and-hidey sense was tingling. And sure enough, a few seconds later, they parted to reveal the completed arcane glyph on the floor; the basis for the rite of AshkEnte.

Vetinari had graciously allowed the wizards to do the actual performing of the rite, in a manoeuvre which would let the wizards come out of this with some dignity. Even though the Patrician had cut efficiently through their smokescreens of long words and star spangled capes, it was important that the wizards be allowed to maintain their monopoly on casting magic. A world where magic was available to everyone with an axe to grind; it was an horrific thing to imagine.

But to Rincewind, whose imagination had once heard the expression "worst case scenario" and hadn't let go of the idea since, could see it all too easily… as if it was just the space of a few minutes away.

Rincewind's gaze fell once again on the Patrician, who, for a man who could blend seamlessly into the shadows, looked unmistakeably solid. Vetinari was standing a few steps behind the octagon of chanting wizards, with one gloved hand reaching into his pocket. A single glint of light escaped- the sort that was usually reserved for the teeth of charming sharks- and Rincewind caught his first glance of what must be the famous anti-sword.

Vetinari had mentioned it as the final step of his plan to kill Death, which Rincewind had agreed to be a part of because it seemed a better idea to live forever than to be the last poor sod to die. But he'd never shown it to them. It was probably best he didn't; no words could have described exactly the sort of heebie-jeebies it was radiating.

The anti-sword currently occupied fourth place on Rincewind's ongoing league table of potential dangers. Third was what would happen to him if he tried to escape before Vetinari had completed his task. Second was what could happen if the spell went wrong. And in pole position was what would happen if the rite succeeded and it turned out Death wasn't massively in the mood for being stabbed.

But in fifth, and rapidly gaining ground was the inexplicable worry that emerged when he saw Vetinari put his hand on the anti-sword. In his life, Rincewind had never known Vetinari to carry a weapon, which meant, of course, that he was an expert at concealing them. But here he was, hand-in-pocket, looking to all the disc like a common mugger.

Was Vetinari slipping?

Is that why he brought us here? To finish the job if he can't? He hadn't deigned it necessary to tell us any more than his plan to stab Death, which to Rincewind sounded like teamwork wasn't exactly needed. Vetinari had just smiled his inscrutable smile and told them all he required of them was their presence.

The wizards' chanting drew to a close. A draught reached out in every direction from the centre of the octogram glyph and the room fell silent. The only exception being the clicks of an iconograph, belonging to a student hoping to document this historic occasion.

The figure emerged from the bottom first. Black billowing robes seemed to rise up from the floorboards. Vetinari readied the blade. Rincewind watched on, wondering if the Patrician was hesitating, or just waiting until he could see the white of His skull.

He didn't have to wait long. Mere fractions of a second later, strands of white intermingled with the black cloth and solidified as they shaped the cloak into a skeletal form.

That was when Vetinari lunged.

They say time slows down when you come encounter certain Death. It seemed this was also true when you were about to see, for the first time, a complete lack of death.

Others say time slows down so the Gods get to laugh at your mistakes for longer.

Because while it was true that there a skeleton had just appeared Death's cloak, that didn't mean the rite had finished.

Mid-lunge, a series of pops, separated only by milliseconds, marked the arrival of several vital organs, a host of muscles and a stern looking pair of eyes. Around them, a pale skin stretched and sprouted fine white and black hairs.

But it was too late to stop the lunge. The crowd gasped as a sliver of blood trickled from the blade of the anti-sword.

The Patrician had just stabbed Susan Sto Helit.

* * *

*This was Rincewind, after all, who had been to at least one hell, and figured that the way his life was going, there would be several more before his life even ended. At the end of this ordeal, he'll be proven right. He hates it when that happens.

*Many people attribute this to Nobby Nobbs of the Ankh Morpork city watch, but these tend to be the people that assume every police officer went through at least the minimum requirement of formal education and crucially, also the people that had never tried to hold an intellectual conversation with sergeant Nobbs. He claims he does have proof that he attended _Mrs Fezzlewick's school for youngsters, _but then again, he also has a certificate to prove he's human…


	19. Stab-le Conditition

…Fortunately it wasn't a very hard stab.

The correct term for the actual severity of the stab was probably more likely a 'knick'. It certainly wasn't a case where more lawyer-attracting words like 'gouged' or 'impaled' were necessary*.

Certainly no-one lost their lives in the attack; Vetinari had been too careful for that, but Susan did lose a few drops of blood and her temper.

"I beg your pardon?" she spat.

"Fascinating" spoke Vetinari, in a voice that conveyed more irritation than fascination. He withdrew the arm holding the anti-sword. Curiously, while there was indeed a sliver of blood on its tip, there seemed to be none on Susan*.

Vetinari explained; "so it produces blood also…"

Susan was still standing, open-mouthed. She looked down to her robes (which indeed had a small cut) and the undamaged flesh beneath it, and then her gaze flashed to where Moist and Angua were gaping, where she was not.

What the Hell?!

_Manners matter here_, _Susan_, her inner governess scolded. _Just because one has been immolated does not excuse bad form. Now, If one wishes to engage in a civil dialogue with someone who has ignored your attempt to get the ball rolling, one should assume the other party has not noticed and repeat oneself in a slightly louder voice. _

Susan cleared her throat. "Ahem." And then, louder: "I beg your f*cking pardon?!"

The wizard with the iconograph had the courtesy to stop taking pictures at this point. His picture imp, on the other hand, was feeling rather good about itself: it had just discovered speech bubbles.

Vetinari looked up at her as an afterthought. "I am sorry if this course of action has dismayed you, my lady," he quasi-apologised. "But please understand that while I was aware of the possibility of you taking Death's place in the Rite, you were never in any sort of danger. This is, after all, an anti-sword. It brings life, not death. You might even find yourself in better health afterwards."

Susan could feel her hair prickling up. There was magic in that blade. New magic. At least the olde magicks had the dignity to warn you of the dangers they posed in vague poems written in ancient tongues that somehow rhyme perfectly when translated. But this was the sort of magic a madman would fiddle with just to see what happens. And more than often what happens is the madman dies and some poor sod tries to recreate the experiment to find out why.

So for all his snide confidence, there was no way Vetinari could have been sure nothing would happen to her. Susan knew what true certainty looked like- she was descended from him- and she could see in his eyes that the Patrician had been unsure.

That was all she could read from him- he was too good to give away anything more. There was no sign of relief or concern on his face and not for the first time, Susan wondered how Vetinari had chosen their team- had he picked them for their skills and experiences or had he just chosen the most expendable? Had he put any thought into his choice at all?

Of course he had, Susan thought. This was Vetinari. The man couldn't read a menu without examining the strategic advantages of a bacon sandwich.

And yet he'd stabbed her.

She shook her head. She was reading too much into this. As useful as an analytical mind can be, primal emotions were there for a reason.

She slapped him.

Hard.

Right across his pale little face.

With a force that should rightly have re-arranged his goatee.

And he let her.

There was Vetinari –Patrician Tyrant 'Your Excellency' Vetinari- the most powerful man on the disc in terms of political power and hand to hand combat and a man who the Assassins' Guild had long ago decided was worth more than the gold of the counterweight continent to go after, and he had just let Susan hit him.

Hard.

He stumbled a little to the side, but soon drew himself back up to his full height and rubbed his cheek. Then he nodded and redirected his energies towards Ponder and the librarian.

Obviously there was some mind game behind it. He probably wanted Susan back on his side, to restore the balance of power, to make her feel good…

…And it felt very good indeed…

…But she knew he was up to something. Hell, the average pigeon could tell he was up to something. The difficulty was proving it before it was too late. But what could she do about it? She could hardly kill the man. And Vetinari had been playing people chess for years, so it wasn't as if she could outmanoeuvre him.

The only play she could make was one she'd practised on her school's governor and would-be reformist, Validity Grout*. Politicians, she'd noted, are accustomed to a higher class of debate and expected their opponents to rise to that level. Susan found the best defence against that sort of argument was to strike hard and fast with strategic stupidity.

_There's no way Vetinari would expect me to take him at his word. He wants me thinking about the thoughts behind the thoughts and the thoughts behind the thoughts behind the thoughts and he'll be basing his predictions of my actions based on that. While he's trying to anticipate the actions of the whole city, I only need to worry about my own. He can overthink all he wants. I'll just underthink him._

If thoughts worked like cogs, you could set your watch to Susan's brain. She could make any problem sweat under her intense focus. But it was this very focus that was letting her down, for right now, while playing Vetinari at his own game was her priority, another problem was going by completely unnoticed.

She'd been angry. Violently so.

Where she'd usually react with a 'tsk' or a passive aggressive threat, she'd sworn and struck out. Where her emotions would hand over the reins to her objective mind, she'd reacted almost without thought. Her heart was thumping and her blood was surging.

More and more, she was feeling _alive_.

* * *

*On Discworld, if you look in a mirror and say "personal injury claim" three times, a lawyer will appear.

*Her cloak, incidentally, was also blood-free. Stain-proof clothing was an absolute necessity for any embodiment of death, what with the number of battlefields they visited.

*Grout had been something of a failed politician in his homeland before he took the post, his main failing being that his period in office overlapped with a violent anarchist coup.


	20. Emotional Luggage

"I'm hoping there's a plan B?" Angua drawled.

"I'm not" muttered Rincewind.

"But of course." He gave a half-smile. No one in the room doubted for a second that not only did Vetinari have a plan B, but also a plan for every letter of the Ankh Morporkian alphabet, but also one for every character of the Aurient alphabet and quite a few Tsortian hieroglyphs*. His filing cabinets probably went on until they reached the sort of letters you get at the far right of a spreadsheet that the programmers only put in to have races with the left arrow key.

"I never had high hopes for that one anyway. Mind you, it would have saved us a bit of hassle. Our next option could potentially be a lot more lethal."

Considering plan A had got one of their group stabbed, no-one seemed particularly optimistic. Least of whom was Rincewind, who believed in optimism in much the same way he believed in communism; it seemed like a good idea, but it would never work and would probably get a lot of people killed.

"If it helps," Vetinari continued, "the absolute worst possible outcome of our little endeavour is that we all die."

That was something, at least. Too many of his misadventures (that is to say, adventures he'd rather have missed) usually carried a much stiffer penalty for failure. Something along the lines of the world falling victim to a power crazed magician, dictator, daemon and/or kangaroo. This seemed simpler somehow.

Rincewind sighed with relief.

That lasted about half a second before his immune system stepped up. His body, unfamiliar with the foreign concept of 'relief' stepped up a gear to drown the contaminant in a flood of fear and adrenaline.

"Just dying? Result." Angua snarked.

"Die as in D-I-E?" Moist raised a finger.

"No, Mister Lipwig. Dye with a Y. With a "Why? Why? Oh Gods, why me?" Vetinari wouldn't be anyone's favourite parent. He didn't even do the right voice for a dying person from a story. "Or at least, that's my experience of the matter."

"Really?"

"No. That was my little joke. Anyone I kill has no time to say anything before they die. And besides, they usually know why them."

"What about us? Why us?"

"Did I not answer that?"

"No."

"Oh."

A pause.

"So?"

"So Plan B."

Nazi codes wished they could be that enigmatic.

"Doctor Stibbons, can you please recite the Law of Universal Equivalency?"

"Knowledge = Power = Energy = Matter = Mass"

"And Mr Von Lipwig, where are we?"

"A library."

"Good. So we have the knowledge. Which means we also have an enormous amount of hypothetical matter. Now, what exactly does that mean? Anyone?"

"Ook."

"Succinctly put. Mr Rincewind, please translate."

"He means when there's a lot of mass in one place, space sort of warps around it."

"Ook."

"So we have a start point and a means to continue. Now, Mr Rincewind, remind me, where do we wish to go?"

"Home?"

"Into Death's Domain. Exactly. But how do we get there? What is there in Death's Domain we can use? Ms Sto Helit?"

"Well He's got quite a few cats."

Angua was hot on the trail of his idea. "He's got a library, hasn't He?"

"Indeed. According to both Miss Sto Helit and our wizzard friend, Death does own a substantial collection, containing within it the lives of everyone who ever lived and will ever die."

"So?"

"So…" Vetinari turned towards Moist like a knight towards a queen. _I can take you, but you can't take me._ "We have two libraries, each with a critical mass of knowledge. Space-time gets warped around them. Knowledge is mass. Mass attracts mass. Matter calls to matter. All libraries are one and the same. One big literary singularity."

"We can go from one to the other? Just like that?"

"Ook!"

Everyone turned to face the Librarian, who tried to look innocent and suggested maybe it was Dr Stibbons who had so rudely interrupted them.

"Um, actually," began Ponder. "You can't. You wouldn't survive. You'd have to go through a fair few miles of bookshelves and you'd be exposed to a lethal amount of Stibbons Radiation."

He waited a while. No one asked.

"Stibbons Radiation is what happens when…"

"Never mind that, doc." Spoke Moist, in what he hoped was his most action-hero-y voice. "Is there anything we can do to survive in there?"

"Well the only living being to go through unharmed is the Librarian." Ponder gestured down. The orang-utan gave a little wave. "And that's only because he has an unusually dense morphic field through lasting exposure to magic."

"Oh, what a shame," Rincewind rushed. He was halfway to the door before the end of the first sentence. "Oh well, can't be helped. I'll just go home then. Tell me when we can all meet up again so I can be in another country, okay?"

A dagger flew through the air and embedded itself in the library door's stiff locking mechanism. Rincewind grabbed it and shook it, but it wouldn't budge, and neither would the door.

"You're not leaving, Rincewind." The wizard barely had time to gulp before Vetinari was upon him. "One way or another, your next stop is the afterlife."

The wizzard pressed himself closely against the door, trying to get his face as far away from Vetinari and any sharp things he may have as possible. He would have cowered and begged –that usually helped keep him alive for a few more seconds- but then something better happened. The door started shaking and he heard the unmistakable cacophony of a hundred flailing feet all trying to navigate a spiral staircase at once.

He threw himself to the side.

The luggage burst through the door.

Vetinari was knocked sideways by the force. The luggage hadn't hit him hard enough for any serious damage, but the explosion of air and door splinters was enough to catapult him across the room.

The Patrician landed on his feet. The luggage, by virtue of having many more feet, which couldn't always co-ordinate, landed with a roll which was only stopped by a collision with a bookshelf. It shook itself like a wet dog and turned on the man trying to hurt its master.

It charged, mouth open.

Vetinari arced away just in time. The luggage's momentum carried it forward through the wall. By the time it burst back through, making another hole, vetinari's hand had darted into a hidden pocket and then to his mouth.

He blew.

It was obviously some sort of whistle- one that Rincewind couldn't hear. None of the others could hear it either, but Rincewind had a special reason for not hearing it. He'd run through the hole in the door and was practically tumbling down the spiral staircase.

What could hear the whistle was the Luggage. At first it looked confused and agitated, looking around to see where the noise was coming from.

It stayed that way for maybe a few seconds before it snapped out of its stupor and remembered its task. Attack Vetinari… who had just put his whistle away.

Being unencumbered with savvy, the Luggage saw nothing ENORMOUSLY SUSPICIOUS with this tactic. To its mind, this was the prey admitting that the Luggage was a superior predator who deserved to eat the prey in the spirit of victory. So it charged once again, and Vetinari didn't shift.

Because he didn't have to.

Through yet another hole in the library's wall, a hulking black mass sped to Vetinari's aid, juggernauting the Luggage ninety degrees away from the Patrician and slamming into a leaden bookshelf with a definitive crack.

Against the last intact wall of the library, the spectators were huddled. Moist had his arms out, in front of the two ladies of the group. Neither needed nor appreciated the gesture, but figured it couldn't hurt to have a meat shield between them and this new monster.

What was it?

It was sleek and black, like Vetinari's carriage, but longer and more robust. To Angua, the whole thing looked like a stylized dragon head scaled up to an improbable size, but her nose couldn't identify it- the only scent she got from it was soil and formaldehyde. It smelled of death.

The behemoth, whatever it was, let out a low growl and flexed its many legs. In many ways it resembled Rincewind's Luggage, especially in temperament. It differed in a few ways, though. It was bigger, badder, and stronger

The Luggage was up again, and, after shaking itself, made another run at the wooden beast undeterred. But the monster was ready. Its legs- no! - fully formed arms bent in readiness and caught the rabid trunk, before throwing it away again with the force of a dozen arms.

"I'm terribly sorry, everyone" said Vetinari, still standing, unfazed by the growing wreckage around him. "I'm afraid this is all my fault."

"That's yours?" blurted Moist, knowing full well that anything that deadly and _that_ shade of black must belong to Vetinari.

"It is indeed." Vetinari looked ever so slightly disappointed. "No doubt you'll notice it's made of the finest Sapient Pearwood money can buy." He turned to the beast again. "Get Rincewind back for us, will you?" It thundered away. "Oh, and finished with a stygium polish solution."

A few seconds of shocked silence later, the beast returned again, holding Rincewind in its many arms before dropping him unceremoniously on the floor.

Vetinari gave it a reassuring pat. "Good boy."

"What the hell is that?" gasped Rincewind between heavy breaths, clutching where his robes were torn.

"That is my Sapient Pearwood Coffin, Mr Rincewind. It is what we'll be using to travel through the library. Its morphic field should be sufficient for the task, don't you think?"

Ponder was still too shocked to answer, let alone find a thaumometer.

"Good. Now, I notice some of you attempted to run, earlier. You disobeyed me, which is something I will not stand for. You will be punished accordingly."

He pulled the whistle out once again and blew. Rincewind instinctively flinched. He opened his eyes a few seconds later when it became clear that imminent death was not upon him, only to see something which made his heart sink further than any physical pounding could.

The Coffin had the Luggage in its arms. It had gone to over to the discarded luggage and hefted the sprained and splintered chest above it. Rincewind could see every stumpy leg on his Luggage writhing desperately for freedom, like a fly trapped on its back.

"No." Rincewind could barely manage a whisper.

Vetinari looked down at him, the lowly wizard on the floor before him, and then turned back to the coffin. He nodded.

There was a long drawn out creak as the Sapient Pearwood split apart bit by bit. It almost sounded like a shriek of pain. One by one, the Luggage's legs stopped moving.

Vetinari looked down again. Rincewind had grabbed his coat tails.

"Don't do this."

He swept his coat tails back and turned away.

The Luggage gave a final CRACK as its boards and planks were snapped apart. But the Coffin didn't stop there. It took both halves of the Luggage and slammed them repeatedly against the hard floor of the library, until what remained was unrecognisable.

"YOU STOP THIS. YOU STOP THIS RIGHT NOW."

That was the voice of Susan Sto Helit. Her special voice.

Vetinari half turned to look at her, and for a moment, his translucent skin looked like a skull to her. A skull-faced man all in black.

He raised a hand, and the coffin stopped, dropping the pieces like a dog who's found something better to play with.

"I trust there will be no more disobedience on this enterprise?"

There was silence again. Old Tom, the University's octiron bell, could not have made a more complete silence. It was a void; a void filled with fear and a loyalty to the only path that could begin to resemble life.

"Then we shall proceed as planned."

And that was that.

Vetinari had a last minute discussion with the wizards over a few figures and some finer academic points of trespassing on Death's Domain, while Moist and Susan did what they could to get Rincewind back on his feet. The postman's words ultimately fell a little flat as words sometimes do when there are a little too many of them. Susan didn't say anything, because there wasn't anything to say. They'd both been on the other side of the event horizon we call life and they both knew it could be worse.

Some ten or so minutes later, Rincewind was walking on his own again- running would take him a while, it seemed- and if there was any further prevaricating, it passed without event.

The five of them took their places inside the surprisingly spacious Coffin and strapped themselves into the chairs provided. The lid then closed on top of them and the Coffin began its walk through the bookshelves and into L-space.

Not that Rincewind noticed. The only thing that felt real to him was the woodchip in his robe's breast pocket.

*Vetinari often fancied that if he had designed the hieroglyphic system, there'd be a very prominent picture of him looking cross and demonstrating that you didn't need both hands in improbable positions to walk.


End file.
